


The Last Warlord: That Which Is Valued Most

by BlueEyedBadger



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate History, Angst, Multi, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 104,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedBadger/pseuds/BlueEyedBadger
Summary: When kings and commoners clash, it is never just a random turn of events. There is always someone behind the scenes, directing the flow. This is the story of the man who would save Thedas, whether it wishes to be saved or no, and the story of the men and women that follow him.(The story is now completely finished...Until book 2 :))





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My brother (Deacon Rayne on fanfiction.net) started this and I fangirled relentlessly until he allowed me to be his co-writer. It's a little bit of an 'alternate history', though we tried to stay as close to canon as possible. You'll see a lot of familiar faces here, but perhaps in unfamiliar places :) Enjoy and don't forget...comments are life!!

9:30 Dragon

_I give you that which I value above all in this world._

Flemeth closed the door, resting her head upon it.  For a moment, ages of weariness bowed her shoulders as her parting words echoed in her memory.

And then she caught a scent and her eyes opened, gleaming and dangerous.

“I don’t suffer trespassers lightly,” She stated, “Less so those who see fit to enter my home unbidden.”

She felt more than saw the man’s smile.

“Nothing enters the Wilds without your knowledge. I should thank you for disabling the most lethal of your wards.”

Flemeth turned to face the man; he stood just over six feet, possessing gray hair and of and appeared to be middle aged, as humans go.  He was of solid build with a leanness to him that lent the impression of a predatory animal.  The dimly lit confines of the small hut cloaked the remainder of his features in shadow. A dim light flickered from a long pipe.

“I am not amused,” Flemeth replied coolly.

“No, but you are curious or else I would be dead.”

The old witch gave a short laugh, “You presume to know me so well?”

“I only presume to know that you do not exterminate that which may prove useful, which is why I am still alive.”

Flemeth’s face relaxed slightly, “Are you hungry?  My daughter was making stew before her unexpected departure.”

“Unexpected for her?” The man stepped into the light, “Or for you?”

A pair of long white strips of fabric crossed over his eyes at an angle, concealing them from view. The remainder of his face bore the weight of his years well, marked only by slight lines around the mouth and presumably his eyes as well as well as streaks of gray in his dark hair.

“Little is unexpected, but every now and then life manages to surprise even an old crone like me.”

“I’m sure. Though if you would be so kind…dispense with the illusion.  It’s distracting and the ‘harmless old hermit woman’ countenance does you little credit.”

“There are times, my friend, when there are more important things than credit but very well,” Flemeth raised her hands above her head and brought them down.  Her drab robes were replaced by purple mail accentuated by an ornate headpiece.

“Better?” She ran her metal talons through her long white hair and peered at him with yellow eyes: the only feature that had not changed.

“Thank you.  It was giving me a headache.”

Flemeth reached out and touched the man’s temples, tracing the outline of the lengths of fabric that masked his eyes.

“Are the visions getting worse?” She asked with a touch of matronly concern.

The man smiled slightly, “Yes, but Vyrantium Samite is working much more effectively than the others. Things are not quite so…bright.”

“You see too much, old friend.”

“A burden we both bear, wouldn’t you say?”

Flemeth laughed, “Come and let me make us some tea.  I have a blend of elfroot and Prophet’s Laurel that should be of some assistance.”

“Prophet’s Laurel?  I was under the impression that it could only be found in Orlais.”

“There is a small grove of it to be found to the north along the coast, if one is willing to brave the giant spiders and constant rain.”

“Or you could simply have acquired the seeds and grown your own.”

Flemeth smiled again as she poured the tea, “I’m glad to see that not all of my lessons were wasted on you.”

“‘Whatever you give your opponent is what they will use against you,’ ” The man sipped the tea, “A lesson on the dangers of overestimation.”

“Yes, though I’m not certain I took the time to thoroughly educate you on the dangers of _underestimation_.“

The man put the cup down on the table.

“You want to know why I’m here?”

“Yes, I do.”

He gestured with his head towards the door, “’I give you that which I value above all in this world’, he quietly quoted her words from minutes before, “that was an especially nice touch.”

Flemeth sipped her tea quietly, “I thought so.”

“Has she been made aware of your…unique predilections?”

“Ha!” Flemeth crowed, “Are you certain you are not Orlesian, so adept at decorating your words in flowers and ribbons?”

“I shall speak more plainly then: is your daughter Morrigan aware that she may be used as a vessel in the near future?”

“Now then, that will depend entirely on whether or not you lived up to your end of the bargain.”

“Of course I did. I learned long ago that it is unwise the fail one’s obligations to you.  Tell me, do the Dalish still tell such fierce stories of your wrath, Asha’bellanar?”

“I particularly enjoy the part about leaving the dismembered remains of those who displease me dangling from the trees,” She shook her head wryly, “As if I do not have better things to do.”

“Not to mention that you would not pollute the trees so.”

Flemeth raised her cup in acknowledgement and took a measured sip, golden eyes boring into the man’s face, “Speak plainly.”

“The tome you requested has found its way into the Grand Enchanters office, as you specified. It could hardly be more conspicuous.  I imagine the man would be most vexed by its presence.”

“Bah! The old man will have more than that to vex him if the rumors of abominations are to be believed.”

“And what manner of rumors are those?”

“They are the sort that one does not share with charming, devious former students,” she smiled broadly, “As if you should be anything else.”

“I am what you taught me to be.”

“Of course you are.  What a mage you would have made.”

“Would I have been an asset to you, or a liability?”

“As if you could only be one or the other.”

“Too true, but to return to the point—“

“Yes, do please humor an old woman.”

The man with the covered eyes stared in her direction for a few moments with an air of quiet amusement before proceeding, “No doubt once it is discovered the forgery will send young Morrigan into a frenzy of self-righteous indignation at the thought of being consumed or possessed or whatever her imagination concocts, against her will.”

“Silly girl, I thought I had taught her better than to make such rash assumptions.”

“You did, but the manuscript is especially convincing.”

“Of course it is. You wrote it.”

“At your behest,” The man’s lips curled up in amusement, “You truly have her convinced that you simply ‘lost’ a priceless tome of lore somewhere to be absconded with by some fool Templar as if it were a random trinket?”

“Oh yes, my performance was quite convincing.  I must have ranted and raved about that silly grimoire a half dozen times.”

“You did not overplay your hand?”

“If I did, it was by necessity, to get through that hard head of hers.”

“And to make certain that it never occurs to her that anything valuable enough to have you in such a state over its loss would have sooner been destroyed than fall into another’s hands.”

“Just so.”

“Then I’m fairly certain your daughter’s reaction is likely to be volatile.”

“I should certainly hope so,” Flemeth scoffed. “No doubt she’ll inspire one of her companions to come forth and slay me so that she may be protected.”

“One of the two Grey Wardens I take it?  The man? He has a potency to him.”

“Maric’s boy?  No, his fate lies elsewhere.”

“You were known to the good king, were you not?”

“In my own fashion, yes.  I tried to warn him about treachery.  It was a warning he failed to heed.

”And foresight becomes hindsight. Yes, I’ve been informed of Calian’s overtures towards Celene.  Loghain’s response was predictable, if nothing else.”

“Do you believe the Teyrn is aware of all aspects of the relationship between his son-in-law -well, _former_ son-in-law- and the Empress of Orlais?”

“If he had been, he would have slain the fool himself rather than feeding him to the darkspawn.”

“You did not hold the former king in high esteem?”

“I do not believe in fighting battles that one cannot win,” He gestured with his cup, “Another lesson I learned at your side.”

“Indeed.”

“Ostagar was a foolish waste at a time where they can hardly be afforded.”

“Ostagar was a means to an end. A crucible, necessary to not only propel events forwards in the direction they must, but ensure that those who are crucial to its success were tempered as needed to endure the way ahead.” Flemeth explained as she refilled their cups.

“You’re speaking of the Cousland girl, I take it?”

“Yes, she has already been through one fire already.”

“So I heard.  Rendon Howe,” The man’s tone suggested unparalleled disgust.

“If you spit on my floor, young man, I will make you clean this entire hut with your tongue.”

The man swallowed and spoke, “My apologies. The man revolts me.”

“Yes, I remember. You never did have much fondness for the Howes.”

“Certainly not the current generation.  Wasn’t there a Grey Warden amongst their ranks at one point?”

“Yes, and if I’m not terribly mistaken, another shall rise,” She smiled thinly, “Apparently nobility skips generations.”

“I’m still surprised, and more than a little appalled, that Rendon thought he could get away with it.  As if he could attain that much favor that quickly and no one would have noticed.”

“I take it he is dancing to Loghain’s tune?”

“The Couslands’ greater standing and vocal support of Cailan made them a target in Loghain’s schemes, as did anyone who does not share his hatred of Orlais.”

“The motivations of men can be bewildering.”

The man snorted indelicately, “As though it’s difficult to understand why Loghain would loathe the Orlesians, given what they did to his wife.”

“I remember once seeing a portrait of them together when they were young, like lions with black manes,” Flemeth commented thoughtfully.

“I imagine Anora’s golden tresses and fair features made her most distinguishable.  The rumors as to how she acquired them are curious indeed.”

“Only curious for those who do not have eyes to see.  One cannot spin gold from coal.”

“True,” the man sipped his tea.  “Still, never underestimate the power of denial.”

“Or regret, for that matter,” Flemeth replied quietly.

“I defer to your expertise on that matter,” the man sipped his tea thoughtfully, “So, assuming Morrigan dances to your tune and sends the Wardens back here to do away with you--?”

“My Morrigan can be unpredictable, but only in the most predictable of ways. One way or another, I will be dead.”

“Or at least appear so. To what end though?”

“I’ve thrown enough stones into the river; I need time to sit back away from prying eyes to watch where the ripples go.”

“So, what will your next move be?”

“That remains to be seen, though perhaps you would be willing to lend your vision to an old friend?”

The man put his cup down, “Oh, anything for an old friend,” He gently unwove the cloth from his eyes and placed it neatly folded on the table.

He possessed no eyelids and inserted into the sockets of his eyes were shards of multicolored glass. A latticework of scar tissue emanated from each wound and it surged and flickered with traces of energy. He reached into the folds of his coat and removed a small wrapped bundle.

“I see you’re still a sentimentalist,” Flemeth indicated towards the item in his hands.

“It came at a great price. I always tend to keep such things close to my heart,” He slowly unwrapped the bundle to reveal a set of black cards which he slowly fanned out in front of himself in a single, practiced motion.

“What do you see?” Flemeth whispered.

He reached out and turned over one card.

“It’s a crossing; filled with bears and spiders and wolves feasting on a pasture of red hair built on the graves of dead kings.”

“I know the village, please continue.”

He turned over several other cards, “Lambs to the slaughter for the most part, but there are three cages that hold something interesting,” He ran his hands over the cards, “A captive bull, a red-breasted nightingale captured in a rose bush, and,” He turned over a final card, “hawks.”

“I see,” Flemeth purred, leaning forward to scrutinize, “Tell me about these hawks.”

“There are four: two shall fall into dust, a third into darkness….”

“And the last?”

The man frowned for a moment longer.

“Glory,” His fractured eyes looked up from the cards, “And they will need your assistance.”

“When?”

“Shortly. My sentries have reported that the darkspawn have almost finished hauling off the corpses of the slain in Ostagar.”

“Pray that they are dead. One does not wish to be taken alive by the darkspawn,”

“Any of my forces that are sent into their territory carry just two vials of Quiet Death: one for any survivors they find and one for themselves should it become necessary.”

“Prudent,” Flemeth nodded approvingly, “How long until the horde consumes Lothering?”

“If they are not delayed; sooner as opposed to later.”

“And I assume your forces are nearby?”

The man nodded, “Outside Ostagar with Outrunners in the Wilds and the Hinterlands.”

“Then have your forces delay them and I shall see to the safety of our nest of hawks.”

“And the one other item?”

Wordlessly, Flemeth walked to the other side of the hut to a small chest.  Whispering a few words, the lid glowed for a moment and then opened.  Reaching in, she removed a large object that glinted red and caused the air around it to hum.

“You’re…certain about this?” Flemeth asked cautiously as she eyed the object with grave apprehension.

“Entirely.  The effects of this material have been most promising.”

“By’ promising’, I assume you mean panic and madness?”

“Which is precisely what I require,” The man took the object from her and examined it, the red light reflecting against the glass shards in his eyes.  “Where there is magic, there is life.  And where there is life…” He ran his fingers over the edges of the idol, “…there is power.”

“So you plan on going through with this insanity?”

“A change is coming, and I shall be its herald.”

“And if that change has to come on the broken lives of an entire world?”

“Sacrifices must be made,” The man gestured towards his eyes.

“Perhaps you have sacrificed too much, my friend.”

The man only smiled and turned his attention back to the artifact, “It’s an excellent fabrication of ancient Dwarven relic.  I’ll see to it that it finds a home in the Deep Roads, and when the time is right it’ll be ‘discovered’ and no doubt brought back to the eager masses.”

“And then…?”

The man simply held up his hands, “Change will happen.”

“On your head be the consequences, old friend.”

“How like a cloistered sister you sound, parroting the words of their mewling Chant of Light.”

The old woman cackled, “Very well then, go and do what you please, as you always have.” She gave him a steady look, “You know, I could simply kill you and spare the world your antics.”

The man tied the wraps back around his eyes, “You could, but you won’t.”

“Will I not?”

“Of course not. You want to see what happens next.”

Flemeth smiled like a hungry predator.

“I absolutely do,” She reached into her robes and removed a tattered book.

“Here,” she handed it to him, “A gift to an old friend.”

The man, having finished rewrapping his eyes and putting the cards away, examined it.

“’An accounting of the signing the Nevarran Accord’,” He ran his hands over the book and gave a slight but satisfied smile, “Circa one-twenty Divine.  Very impressive.”

“It was written by a knight errant whose name escapes me,” Flemeth offered a grin that suggested she was the cat that had just eaten the last canary in Thedas, “but who went one to be a member of the original Inquisition and later a founder of the Templar order.  I understand that they teach according to his words even still.”

“The Templars have certainly proven resistant to change.”

Flemeth snorted indelicately, “An understatement and a behavior that will cost them dearly in the future,” She gestured at the book, “It is encoded, I’m afraid, based on a language that died before the Second Blight. I recall that Andraste’s followers used a similar encryption against Tevinter,” She cocked an eyebrow challengingly, “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?”

“Not in the slightest,” The man opened the book carefully and ran his fingers across its pages.  His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment.

“Interesting, the Templar order has indeed changed little.  A fundamental understanding of their most basic schools of thought is certainly…useful,” His brow smoothed and he put the book down on the table, “I’ll decode the minutiae later.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I must see to it that both the remaining Wardens are proceeding along the necessary path and then I will turn my attention to the village,” The old woman leveled a grave expression upon her companion, “If we lose The Wardens, the rest of Thedas might well follow.”

The man exhaled a final cloud of smoke, “Then we shall see to it that we _don’t_ lose them.”

Flemeth nodded, “Very well.  Now, time is moving and we are standing still.  Awaken, my friend.”

The man opened his eyes.

“Captain Sul?” A level voice called out from the darkness, “How was your sleep?”

The man rose and turned to regard the Qunari woman sitting next to his bed. She was tall, as were most Qunari, and possessed a full-figure that was mostly concealed in the robes that she wore.  Her horns curled back on themselves and were tipped with Stormheart, giving them an emerald sheen.  In her hands she held a tonic, a large book and a supply of quill pens and ink.

“Productive, Atiya,” He drank the tonic and grimaced at the taste. 

The scribe opened the book and readied herself for orders, “What is your command, Captain Sul?” she asked in the perfectly even tone those like her were known for.

 “Summon the council.  We have work to do.”


	2. A Lesson In History

_Battle is not a matter of chance, but a measure of dedication. The novice seeks battle.  The master claims victory.   – Passage from ‘Victoria Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Tevene. Author unknown.   Currently banned by the Chantry._

The cat lazily entwined itself around the legs of the man sitting in the chair.  Captain Sul gave a small smile and reached down to pet the animal. It purred ecstatically and rubbed against his hand.  He straightened, adjusted his black uniform. “Report.”

The assembled lieutenants exchanged looks before one, a Dalish elf by his markings, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Our Outrunners report that the last of the darkspawn are beginning to migrate from the field of Ostagar,” Lieutenant Pellinore began, “Per your instructions, any survivors of the battle were found and collected.  Their wounds are being treated and they will be fully debriefed upon their recovery.”

“Continue to coordinate with the White Vanguard. Our healers are to ensure that these individuals are recovered enough to endure interrogation. I want their information and their support, preferably in that order.  Remind those involved that they are no good to us dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are the darkspawn continuing to take prisoners underground?”

“Yes, sir,” the elf repressed a shudder, “We are getting reports that they are disappearing somewhere in the Hinterlands, near Valammar. We do not why there specifically yet--”

A high-pitched giggle broke the conversation. It quickly dissolved into nonsensical tittering.

“A vein, a vein of red and gray, built by the dead, kept by the dead and now the way home.”

Several pairs of eyes, almost unwillingly, turned to regard the speaker: a diminutive humanoid creature with pale blue skin. It possessed an androgynous beauty and an ageless veneer.  Its eyes were completely blue save for pupils so contracted they almost disappeared.

Captain Sul turned more slowly to observe the gibbering creature and gestured, “Please, continue.”

“The Taint, the Taint, The Taint, The Taint!” It stretched out its body and arched its spine until it was bent nearly in double, “We can taste it, smell it, we can hear its crimson song!  Here!  There! Everywhere!” It quickly degenerated into babbling in a variety of languages that none, save Sul, understood.

“Thank you, Chirak,” Sul nodded once and turned his bandaged eyes back to regard his lieutenant, “It would appear that there is an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby. Assign Sentinels to observe and began plans for a more permanent method of monitoring the location.”

“Yes sir. And what about the darkspawn taking captives?”

A moment of consideration as Sul leaned back in his high-backed chair, tapping his finger lightly against his lip.

“Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.  Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin,” Chirak whispered. It wrapped its arms around itself and began to rock back and forth.  It looked up at Sul with those blank, blue eyes, “We can hear her singing, down down down down.”

“I see,” Sul said under his breath, “Yes, that would make sense.”

“Sir?” Pellinore asked cautiously.

“Deploy a squad of Black Shepherds. Make sure they are accompanied by at least two of the Grey Wardens. That should keep them from encountering the main body of the horde. Their targets are anyone that has been captured alive by the darkspawn and not yet transplanted underground.”

“Should we attempt rescue?”

“Not unless it’s approved by one of the Wardens. They should be able to determine whether or not a captive has already been tainted at range.  I predict, however, that everyone captured by the spawn have already been corrupted.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“What reason would they have not to begin hastening their captive’s corruption?” Sul stated simply.  “This operation shall be solely focused on depriving the enemy of resources. Oh, and make certain that the Shepherds carry with them silverite arms and armor, augmented with the appropriate runes in case they should come into conflict with the Darkspawn…as well as vials of Quiet Death should that conflict go poorly.”

“Yes sir. I recommend that we have our forces step up production in Emprise de Lion and The Approach, if we are going to continue to engage the darkspawn.”

“Recommendation noted, Lieutenant, and already acted upon. The order was sent to Orlais before we arrived at Ostagar as well as orders to harvest more Arcanist and Lunatic’s Deathroot to supplement our stores of Quiet Death and other concoctions.

The elven lieutenant nodded, “Ma nuvenin, ma Hahren,” He placed his fist over his breast and bowed his head.

“Ma serannas, Lieutenant,” Sul replied, nodding slightly. The elf stepped back to stand amongst his fellow officers once more.

“Lothering?”

A female dwarf, her gray hair cut short and a tattoo marking her as casteless branded on her face stepped forward. “Birds just got back, the place is done for. The Horde will be there by dawn at the latest.”

“Can they be delayed?”

The dwarf scratched her head and spat, “Sap the place all to blazes, yeah, by a few hours at least.”

“See to it.”

The dwarf woman bowed and exited the large tent.

“What news from within the village itself?”

A non-descript human woman stepped forward. She had dark hair and was dressed like a peasant.

“You were right, sir,” She reported in a crisp, even voice, with a thick Tevinter accent, “There was a Qunari imprisoned in town, he hadn’t been there long.  There were also reports of a young red-haired woman in the Inn.  Locals say she’s been making claims that she received a vision from the Maker.”

A faint smile crossed the Captain’s lips, “Of course she has. And the third objective?”

“A family, sir: an older woman, and three siblings. An elder and a pair of twins.”

“Continue.”

“My information tells me that the family patron, now deceased, was at one point a respected mage.  We have reason to believe that the female twin is also a mage.  Her brother was at the battle served under a ‘Captain Varrell’ and has only recently returned to assist his family in escaping.  The eldest sibling seems unremarkable except that apparently she is good with knives, sir.”

“An assassin?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. Not with any formal training at any rate.”

“I see.  And the remaining Grey Wardens from Ostagar?”

“The man and the woman arrived in Lothering earlier, accompanied by a dark-haired woman we believe to be a Chasind Witch along with a mabari hound.  What they are doing in town is unknown, though I could return if you wish sir and find out.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. The Horde is advancing and I have no interest in losing one of my better infiltrators.  I take it your cover remained intact?”

The woman smiled broadly, “Y-y-y-yes sir,” she said in a mock stutter now with a pronounced Fereldan accent, “I j-j-j-just asked milord Warden’s if they could h-h-h-help with maybe getting some traps?”

Captain Sul nodded his approval, “Well done. Report back to your unit,” The woman hesitated and Sul arched one eyebrow, “Something further?”

“There is,” She began hesitantly, “a child.”

“Explain.”

“His mother was slain by wolves. Goodwife Sarha, she was a friend.”

“And you wish to honor your friend’s memory by adopting her orphan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I cannot guarantee the boy’s safety.”

“Yes sir, but respectfully, who amongst us can guarantee safety of anyone?”

Sul pursed his lips then nodded, “Very well, I’m sure one of our knights is in need of a page.  His well-being then is your responsibility.  I assume you understand the gravitas of that?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” The woman handed him a bound scroll, snapped a crisp salute and departed.

Captain Sul turned his attention to the remainder of his officers. “Break camp and prepare to depart. I should like the majority of our forces to be gone before the darkspawn arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” The assembled men and women saluted and departed.

“Sir? If I may?”

Captain Sul nodded and the Dalish lieutenant stepped forward.

“Respectfully, Captain, shouldn’t we keep a closer watch on the Wardens in Lothering? Given their importance.”

“Your concern is noted, Lieutenant.  Calm your fears; I already know where they’re going after Lothering.”

“Sir?”

Sul stood up and made his way to a large table adorned with a map, “See for yourself,” he gestured, “Lothering is here.  Here and here,” he pointed, “are the wilds, infested with darkspawn.  And here, towards the North, is the Horde itself. Therefore there is only one logical destination,” He tapped a place on the map, “Here: The Imperial Highway.”

When the Captain explained it like that, it seemed absurdly obvious. Pellinore colored slightly under his markings.

“Although…” Sul frowned at the map.

“Sir?”

“The report from Lothering; what is the name of the family that was being investigated?”

The lieutenant cracked open the green and red seal of the phoenix on the parchment and unrolled it, scanning it quickly, “Ah—yes, sir.  The name is….Hawke.”

“Of course it is,” Sul said under his breath, “Bring me parchment and ink.”

Pellinore hurried to fetch the supplies.  Captain Sul took pen in hand.

_The Hawkes fly south of Lothering._

He affixed it with his seal and handed it to Pellinore.

“Deliver that to the ravens.”

“Yes, sir.  What is the destination?”

“The Korcari Wilds.”

The lieutenant frowned, “Just ‘The Korcari Wilds’ sir?  No name?”

Sul smiled to himself, “Don’t worry, it will get to who it is intended for.”

Pellinore saluted and turned to leave.

“Captain!” An out-of-breath runner panted, “Our sentries in the Wilds are under attack!”

“Fenedhis lasa!” Pellinore spat, “Send up the flare and have our forces retreat immediately, prepare to—“

“Belay that order,” Sul held up his hand, “And send for Ravenna and Pentaghast.”

“Captain--”

“Let’s see what we have,” Sul slipped a ring on his finger and waved it over the map.  A low hum filled the air as he removed the samite bindings from his eyes.  The glass shards gleamed eerily, flickering lights danced within them as he stared at the map.

“Interesting,” He peered at the map, which was humming incessantly in a low tone that made Pellinore’s back teeth vibrate. He turned to address the elf. “Who is in command of that unit?”

“Sergeant Rutherford, sir. Of Honnleath.”

A faint smile crossed Sul’s lips, “Very well,” He nodded, satisfied, and replaced the samite bindings around his eyes. A pair of people approached at brisk pace.  The woman was tall, copper-skinned, with streaks of grey through her dark hair.  She wore brightly colored tattoos all over her body and gold amulets draped over her throat, rings on every finger. It contrasted heavily with her regal bearing. As she swept in, she was preceded by the scent of tea.

The man was squat with short hair, dark robes with a crowned skull emblazoned upon it, and a severe expression. He smelled strongly of cinnamon and pitch.

The dark-skinned woman bowed, “ _Saludo, Mi capitan_.”

Sul tilted his head, “Lady Ravenna.”

“Make it quick…” the other man barked.

Sul arched an eyebrow at the other man.

“…sir,” he finished sullenly.

“Casper.”

The other man stiffened, “Casper Pentaghast the third,” he corrected haughtily.

“Sir…” Pellinore leaned in and whispered to the Captain just loud enough for everyone else to hear, “…if you prefer, I can summon one of the Sanguinaries to assist instead?”

Sul repressed a smile as Casper’s expression slid into outrage and he opened his mouth to protest.  The Captain held up a hand, “Peace, Casper, now is not the time.  Your services are required.”

“Well, obviously!”

Ravenna rolled her eyes at the other man and shook her head, “How may I be of service, _Capitan_?”

Sul lightly touched the ring upon his finger and whispered something, focusing…

_Panic. Short of breath. Sweating through my armor. Riders. Heavy Armor. Barding upon pale horses with dark manes._

Sul returned to the present and nodded grimly, “Templars.”

Mages and Dalish exchanged alarmed looks as Sul picked up quill and parchment.  He wrote quickly and handed it to Ravenna.

“Deliver this to the Outrunners. You’ll find them being pursued by Templars near Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds.”

The woman bowed her head, “As you say, Capitan,” she turned to face the short man standing next to her, “Well?”

Casper glared at her, “Fine, you old witch!” He snarled, relenting.  He brought his hands together and spun them together. A swirling green orb of light formed which produced a high-pitched whine. The ball of light became a spinning blur. With a flourish, he released the orb of light and it cascaded over the woman.

She flinched as the glow washed over her in waves, “ _Mierda_ , I hate this part. Like needles and pins!”

The glow faded and Casper exhaled hard, “Right. I’m leaving, I need a drink,” he stormed off.

“Casper.”

The man stopped at the Captain’s tone; a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

“Remember who you are.  Remember where you are.  And remember whom it is you serve.”

Slowly, Casper turned and met the other man’s veiled gaze. There was a beat and then the man bowed deeply at the waist, “Forgive me, my captain, I forget myself.”

The Captain held the other man’s gaze through the bindings a long moment then he nodded, “Dismissed.” Casper saluted and hurried away.  The Captain turned his attention to Ravenna, “Well?”

Ravenna moved her hands, they blurred, leaving a trial of afterimages in the air.  Her entire body vibrated as she blurred to face Sul opening her mouth to speak,

“Verywell,micapitan,iamreadytoleavebyyourcommand!”

Sul took a moment to process the accelerated speech and wordlessly handed over the scroll to her. Her hand blurred out and snatched it from him, nearly tearing it. She spun and dashed forward, leapt into the air. There was a burst of black smoke and a large raven flew away in a black blur.

“Will the orders reach them in time?” Pellinore asked the Captain.

“I would not have dispatched them if I believed otherwise,” Sul assured his lieutenant.   Pellinore seemed to be struggling with something, “Speak freely, lieutenant,” the Captain said softly.

“Sir, you know I would never presume to question your orders—“

“Peace, Lieutenant, I have no interest in unthinking slaves. Demons, the walking dead, and golems would suffice if I did,” Sul turned to face the other man, “What I require are quick, creative minds who can think, reason, and most of all, _believe_ ,” The pair resumed walking, “We are at war, lieutenant. We cannot afford the luxury of having minds so limited that they cannot expand or adapt to change.  Blind obedience and mindless subservience are what the Orlesian Chantry, the Templars, and the Circle of Magi prefer. Those under my command are held to a higher standard, “Never be afraid to ask questions. It is the only way to gain understanding,” He turned to face outside, “Perhaps if the Orlesian Chantry had not forgotten that, its destruction would not be necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” Pellinore nodded, “What commands did you issue to the Outriders?”

Sul gestured at the map, “I instructed them to split up and dismount and then proceed southwest on foot as quickly as possible, while keeping in sight of the Templars.”

Pellinore frowned at the map, “Sir, southwest leads directly into the bogs. There’s nothing but marshland. Won’t they be run down?”

“We shall see,” He moved to the far side of the tent and took down a book, “Tell me, Lieutenant…what do you know of history?”

“Ah, very little, sir,” Pellinore said, looking surprised at the sudden shift of topic, “I’ve never really been very interested or had the time.”

“Consider generating both time and interest,” Sul lightly caressed the cover of the book and gently opened it.  He ran his fingers down the page for a moment and presented it to Pellinore.

“’History of the Inquisition’ circa one-twenty Divine,” He handed the book to him, “Have you heard of the Inquisition of old, Lieutenant?”

“No sir, I can’t say I have,” Pellinore replied, too confused to say anything else.

Sul’s expression became scornful, “Unsurprising, as the majority of its history has been suppressed by the Orlesian Chantry.  Too many ‘inconvenient truths’ for their liking.”

“Yes sir,” Pellinore answered.

Sul’s expression lightened. “Before their submission to the Orlesian Chantry, the Inquisition was a force for good.  Motivated men and women of all races and creeds who saw the need for change in the world and set about effecting that change,” the Captain scoffed, “I find it a supreme irony that those that were heralded as heroes in their age had their legacy erased by the very institution that they fought to protect.”

“This Inquisition became part of the Chan—Ah, the Orlesian Chantry, sir?”

“Yes and no,” Sul conceded, “The majority of the Inquisition became part of the Orlesian Chantry in 1:20 Divine at the signing of the Nevarran Accord,” He paused and waited.

Pellinore started and shook his head, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not familiar with that either.”

“You should be, Lieutenant. Perhaps I will loan you a few tomes from my library.”

“Thank you sir.”

“With the signing of the Accord, the Inquisition became the military arm of the Orlesian Chantry.  The Circles of Magi and the Order of the Seekers of Truth followed soon after.”

“The…’Seekers of Truth’’, sir?”

“A poorly-kept secret amongst the Orlesian Chantry; a sect of Templars considered to be the pinnacle of their order; all-knowing, all-seeing, and incorruptible,” Sul shook his head, “Much like the Templars, it fails both in principal and in execution,”

“Sir—“

“But what does this have to do with the current situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Consider: it is the unfortunate nature of most collectives, especially religious or military organizations, to stagnate over the years. New ideas are ignored or suppressed in favor of the safety of the tried and true traditions.  They cannot adapt to a changing world and so they work to inhibit that change by whatever means possible.”

“Why, sir?”

“Fear,” Sul answered coldly, “Fear of losing their power, their place, their privilege.  They fear the unknown,” his tone became colder still, “And what they fear, they hate and seek to destroy. And so they fight tooth and claw against any form of change or progress, regardless of the cost to the rest of the world.  They are weak and they are cowardly.”

Pellinore swallowed and nodded. The intensity of the Captain’s words and tone struck to the bone. “And in regards to the current situation?”

“Strategy, lieutenant and an unwillingness to deviate from that which has already been established.  In this instance, the strategy of the Templars to travel in full plate mail, complete with Orlesian Coursers, into battle.”

“Orlesian Coursers, sir?”

“Horses, lieutenant, from Orlais.  They are considered the preferred breed of their Chevaliers.  Former and failed Chevaliers make up a significant portion of the Templar Order’s command structure. They bring with them their history, their lineage.”

“And their horses!” Pellinore said as something clicked.

“Just so.”

The Lieutenant frowned, “But sir, I don’t understand. Why are their horses important?”

Sul shook his head and said nothing.

An hour later, a cheer rose up from the camp and Pellinore nearly jumped.

“You asked why their choice in horses mattered, Lieutenant?”

Pellinore scanned the crowd and his jaw fell open.

“ _Fenedhis lasa_!” he swore.

“Because they are heavy,” Sul finished.

A procession of chained Templars, coated in mud and detritus from head to toe, appeared. They were being led by the jubilant Outriders.  The Templars raged and spat and hurled insults at their captors as they were dragged towards the command tent, many of them coughing violently. At least one vomited up a great deal of dirty water and mud.

Barding, plate mail, horses…and it slowly dawned on Pellinore. He spun on his commander, “You had our forces lead them into the swamp…” he turned to face the bound Templars again, “…and they sank.”

“Adapt or die, Lieutenant,” The Captain said quietly, “There can be no alternative.  Now, shall we welcome our guests?”


	3. Negotiations

An hour later, the Templars were led to the command tent.  Their wounds had been bound and their bodies cleaned. They had been granted permission to keep both their armor and blades.  The only concession they had been forced to make for their captors was that each of their swords had been peace bound with thin green ribbons.

The tabby cat purred ecstatically underneath Sul’s fingers as he scratched under his chin and behind his ears.  Sul reached over to a small end table next to his desk, removed a piece of thinly sliced dried ham and dangled it before the cat.  The cat sniffed tentatively once before lunging out with a paw, snatching it out of the man’s fingers and devouring it whole.   Sul’s lips curled up in a slight smile.

“Good kitty,” The cat turned and looked indignant at the man’s patronizing tone. Then it meticulously cleaned itself, running one large paw over its scarred face.  The man gently took the cat’s face in his hand and rubbed his thumb over the missing eye and scars across its face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I failed you too.”

The cat put both his paws on the man’s hand, pushed itself forward and began to lick the Sul’s face, purring.

“Captain” Atiya began, leaning her tall frame down to whisper in the man’s ear, “Are you certain it is wise to allow the prisoners to keep their weapons?”

Sul gently lifted the cat from his lap and placed it upon the ground.  It huffed once and then curled around his feet, resting his large head on paws peering at the prisoners disdainfully.

“One does not strip a Templar of his arms and armor, unless you seek to them a great dishonor,” He regarded the group thoughtfully, “Now is not the time for shaming.  Now is the time for diplomacy.”

Atiya bowed her massive head, tucking a stray lock of auburn hair behind her curved horns and straightening.

“Different faces, different races, different places,” Chirak tittered from its position, crouched like a feral beast at the Captain’s feet, “But all the same.”

“Let us hope not,” Sul replied before standing, “I am Captain Drachaen Sul, I bid you welcome to the Phoenix Legion.”

“This is an outrage!” one of the Templars, a tan man with more than his share of nose, roared, “I demand—!”

“Oy!” A boot the size of on ox’s heart slammed into his back and sent him sprawling, “Shut your bloody gob and speak right to the Cap’n before I gouge out your eyes and skull fuck you to death!” A thick arm wrapped around the man’s throat, a second locked behind it and instantly the Templar’s face flushed as he began to asphyxiate, “Cap’n sir!” The unseen assailant barked, “Permission to skull fuck the prisoners to death sir!”

“All in good time,” Sul replied calmly, “Release him.”

“Yes, sir!”

The Templar was dropped in a heap, gasping for air.  He rolled over onto his back and gaped,

“An elf?!”

Not a lithe creature of the woods, the elf was easily six feet tall and as broad as a horse, with muscular arms and ham-sized hands.  He was covered in scars, the most prominent being a large, puckered gash that might have once come from a beast that bisected his face and colored one eye a pale blue whilst the other was a dead black.  His hair was gray and resembled the bristles of a wild boar.  He leered at the fallen knight and spat. “Piss on you.”

“Gentlemen…and lady,” Sul amended with a tilt of his head, acknowledging the young woman that was among their ranks, “Permit me to introduce Sergeant Reaper Maul.”

“Yeah,” Maul grinned, “Name used to be ‘Spine- breaker, eye-gouger, heart ripper, but it wouldn’t all fit on the side of me tent.”

The Templar that had been assaulted was being helped to his feet, still coughing in an attempt to regain the ability to draw breath.

“Do you drink the blood of your enemies?  Are you descended from dragons?”

A younger Templar had spoken; Sul eyed him speculatively. A Marcher by his tone and complexion, he couldn’t have been off the farm longer than a handful of years.

“Naw!” Maul grinned, “Yer thinkin’ ‘Reavers’.  Don’t need none of that here.”

“Maul’s aggressive tendencies and combat abilities are more than sufficient without being further augmented by blood consumption,” Sul explained.

Maul jerked his head towards the Captain, “What the Cap’n said!”

“Sergeant.”

“Sir!”

“Thank you for your assistance. I do not believe that I shall require it any further for the present.”

“Are you certain Cap’n?” He gestured at the Templar he’d nearly choked to death, “That one’s a right shifty bastard.  I can rip off his arm and beat him to death with it, teach him some manners.”

“If you kill him, what use is teaching him manners?”

Maul shrugged, “Fair ‘nough,” he saluted vigorously but remained standing at attention ready to serve his master’s will.

 “Forgive Sergeant Maul,” Sul explained, “His tenure in the Provings left little time for matters of etiquette or protocol.”

“He was in the Provings?” the Marcher Templar gaped, “But he’s an elf!”

Sul turned his bandaged gaze back to the young man, “What is your name, Ser Knight?”

“Keiran, sir. Of House Ehingen.”

“Bannermen to the Vaels themselves,” He smiled slightly, “You are a long way from home, Ser Keiran.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Enough of this!” The Templar that had been assaulted had regained his breath and his composure, “By the rules of war--!”

“Do not presume to lecture me on the rules of war, Templar,” Sul’s eyes flashed, “Whilst we are discussing it however, which ‘rules’ would you prefer: those of Ferelden set forth by King Calenhad during Exalted age, or would you prefer the Orlesian rules of war as proclaimed by Emperor Valmont in during the Age of Storm?”

The Templar shut his mouth with an audible sound, “The Rules of Orlais.”

Sul scoffed, “How fitting given that after his war with Ferelden those rules were ratified by Emperor Valmont granting exceptional leeway and rights of ransom to officers,” he shifted his focus to the other knights, “the enlisted were not so fortunate.”

Chirak threw back its head and laughed, “A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion!”

“Enough, Chirak!” Sul admonished the creature.

The blue skinned creature turned and hissed at Sul, but remained silent.

“Very well then, custom dictates that the commanding officer identify himself so that formal negotiations may begin.  You are he I assume?”

The man stood erect, “I am Knight-Captain—“

“No, you are not,” Sul cut him off, his expression predatory.

“How dare--!”

“Your armor is of standard Orlesian design, but the riveting has been done with iron, as is evidenced by the discoloration.  Silverite, which does not tarnish is more traditionally used amongst knights of rank.”

The Knight Lieutenant moved to object, Sul silenced him with an upraised hand. “You bear no masked heraldry upon your shield or pommel and the leather of your scabbard is made of Bronto Hide, not August Ram leather, as would befit nobility,”

Sul leaned in for the kill, “You are what is known colloquially as a ‘peasant-knight’.  In Ferelden, perhaps you could earn your way to a captainship, but hailing from or near the Dales as your accent and the cut of your cloak indicates, you rank no higher than ‘Knight-Lieutenant’ at best.”

“Sweet Maker!” Ser Keiran exclaimed, earning reproving looks from his comrades.

Sul stood and poured himself a goblet full of water.  The silence stretched on, discomforting the Templars as he leisurely returned to his high-backed chair and took a long measured sip before turning his attention back to the Templars.

“You have violated the third of the five most core tenants of formal negotiation under the Orlesian code: you have misrepresented yourself and your rank and therefore cannot serve as spokesman to your unit,” He gestured to the guards flanking the Templars, “Imprison them. Perhaps they will amuse the darkspawn after we depart,” he turned his attention back to Atiya.

“No, wait!” A voice called out and the young woman stepped forward, “I will negotiate in place of the Knight-Lieutenant!”

Sul turned his attention back to the assembled Templars, “Will you?” Sul asked thoughtfully.  “Do you claim greater rank?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Do you claim ties to higher nobility?” he pressed.

“No sir, I do not.”

“Can you offer any justification as to why you should be permitted to negotiate instead of your superior officer?”

“Only that I will not sully myself with lies,” The young woman looked back at the other Templars, “And that I would lay down my life for my comrades. This I swear, on my life and on my honor for they are one and the same.”

A beat and then Sul slowly nodded, “Very well, that will suffice.”

She hesitated, “Forgive me, my lord—“

“I am not a lord,” The Captain interrupted, “Nor am I descended from nobility. I am a warrior, a soldier of Ferelden, and an officer. ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain’ will suffice. Identify yourself, Ser Knight.”

“If you are lowborn,” The Templar lieutenant interrupted with a shout, “Then you have no right—!”

“I do not require ‘the right’ to pass judgment upon you Knight-Lieutenant, I possess the ability.  I am above the mandates of your incestuous nobility and your withered Orlesian Chantry. I answer to a higher law.”

“Which is?”

“ _Mine_.” The air between the two men was colder than the empty space between the stars.  “If you speak again, I will kill you.  Is that perfectly clear?”

The Templar officer said nothing and slunk back amongst his men.  Sul returned his attention to the young woman, “Identify yourself, Ser knight” he repeated calmly.

“Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin, ser. Of Kirkwall.”

“Now that is a proper, civil greeting, even here in the Wilds,” Sul nodded his head approvingly, “Assuming you are not claiming aggrieved status, you may state your terms.”

“Yes, sir. I would like to have my fellow Templars released without suffering any further harm.”

“Perhaps you should refrain then from riding several hundred pounds of mount and knight into a bog.”

Ceyrabeth’s cheeks flared red and she glared sideways at the Knight-Lieutenant.

“Ah,” Captain Sul added, “You did not.  When the order to charge was given, you did not follow into the trap,” His obscured gaze turned to the mud splattered on the hem of her cloak, “It was only after your fellows became mired did you enter the bog yourself.”

“Yes sir. It is how you say.”

“And promptly became mired as well.”

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, “Yes sir.”

“Tell me; you’ve had time now to reflect on your actions.  What would you have done differently?”

Ceyrabeth thought for a moment, then shook her head, “I do not know, sir. I could not abandon my fellows to death.”

“Indeed, you could not. You were in an untenable situation the moment your commanding officer allowed his wounded pride to dictate his actions.  Given what you had to work with, you showed both courage and loyalty.”

Ceyrabeth felt more color rush to her cheeks at the other man’s praise, “Thank…thank you sir.”

Sul nodded, “Now, bring me your sword.”

She frowned, “Sir?”

“Your sword.  Bring it to me and the sword of your commander as well.”

The knight-lieutenant opened his mouth to protest, then quickly remembered Sul’s threat on his life and shut it.  Glowering at the young woman he handed over his sword, still bound in its scabbard.

Carefully, Ceyrabeth approached the Captain.   The Qunari woman, Atiya reached out with a large hand and collected the weapons from the young woman. Ceyrabeth frowned at both her eerily still expression and the strange puckered scars around her lips.

Atiya presented the weapons to the Captain.  He undid the peace binding around the Knight-Lieutenant’s sword and slowly removed the blade, examining it critically before rising to his feet, sword still in hand.  The assembled Templars moved away from him in alarm, but Sul merely gave the weapon a few measuring test swings, tight and precise, and frowned in displeasure.

“Poorly balanced,” he commented disapprovingly, “and only a partial tang.”  He examined the owner of the blade critically, “Too many years guarding acolytes and apprentices.  By the quality of this weapon, I can only assume that you have never served on the front line before…” Sul returned his gaze to the blade, “…against opponents who are permitted to fight back.”

The Knight-Lieutenant looked as if he would have an apoplexy.

Sul frowned at the blade, running his hands carefully along the edges and then down the fuller, rubbing his thumb back and forth against the guard, “You take very good care of this weapon, Knight-Lieutenant.  Very good care indeed.”

“We’re required to make sure our weapons are cleaned after every battle,” Ser Keiran provided helpfully.

“Of course.  Dried blood is not conducive to the overall integrity of the weapon, to say nothing of darkspawn blood,” Sul pressed the tip of the blade into the dirt and rested his weight upon it.  “Inflexible,” He noted with distaste, “No give to the steel makes for a brittle blade,” he turned his attention back to the Templars, “Quite the liability against the heavier weapons darkspawn are known to favor.”

The other Templars shifted uneasily at the mention of darkspawn.

“This weapon however is in exceptional condition, especially considering how poorly constructed it is.  There is not a single nick in the edge not a spot of dried blood within the fuller or encrusted upon the hilt,” Sul handed it to Atiya, “Atiya, when was the last time you saw a blade in such a condition?”

“When it was freshly made, Captain, and yet to be used,” She answered in her usual level tone.

“When it was yet to be used,” Sul confirmed, taking the weapon back from her and casually tossed the blade at Knight-Lieutenant’s feet.

“You were at Ostagar. There is no other possible reason for a unit of Templars in full regalia to be present in the Korcari Wilds.  Ostensibly, I imagine your purpose was to ‘protect’ the mages present on loan from the Circle tower to aid King Cailan’s forces and yet I do not see your charges,” Sul adjusted his obsidian-colored uniform and retook his seat.

The remainder of the Templars looked very nervous at this line of questioning, none more so than the Knight-Lieutenant. Sul turned his attention back to the Qunari, “Did our Sentinels observing the battle see any mages at the forefront, when the king and the Grey Wardens were being massacred?”

“No, Captain.”

Sul’s expression turned predatory. “Did they see any Templars?”

“No, Captain.”

“And what conclusion do you draw from this?”

“That the mages and Templars were somewhere else,” She turned her eyes upon the assembled knights, “Someplace away from the fighting.”

“Someplace a great deal away, judging by the condition of their armor and, more tellingly, their weapons.”

“It is possible that the mages somehow escaped the Templars and in attempting to recapture them, they could not participate in the battle.”

“Possible, if not for the fact that a group of mages could not outrun a full company of mounted Templars on open ground.  Even had they horses of their own, the Templars would have proved to be superior horsemen.”

“Perhaps the Templars murdered the mages,” The Qunari woman speculated in the same, emotionless tone, her flat gaze measuring each of the knights in turn.

Ser Ceyrabeth’s spine stiffened at the accusation, but it was Ser Keiran who called out, “We would never—“

Sul held up a hand, “Peace Ser Keiran. I am perfectly aware that you did not murder your charges,” He gently undid the peace bind to Ceyrabeth’s sword and removed it from its sheath.

“Better,” He commented, running his hands along the blade’s edge, “This weapon has clearly seen battle,” Sul held the weapon up and lightly rapped it with a fingernail causing the metal to ring, “Paragon’s Luster,” he mused.  He gripped the sword by the hilt and held it out straight, tip pointed at the woman, “The balance suggests the smith is used to working with denser materials and a lower center of gravity.  It is Dwarven make then?”

“Uh---yes!” Ceyrabeth replied wondering how in the name of Andraste he had deduced that, “It was a gift.”

Sul carefully ran his thumb carefully along the fuller, “’Tis a fine gift indeed.  But I detect no evidence of mage blood on this weapon.”

She frowned, “Sir?”

Sul favored her with a slight smile and took another measured sip from his goblet, wetting his lips before speaking. “Before a major battle mages often consume vast amount of lyrium to ensure the potency of their spells.  It leaves a telling residue in the blood, traces of lyrium that could not be absorbed more fully into the body,” He gently sheathed the weapon and left the peace binding undone, “That residue would be present on this weapon had you run through a mage whose blood was that heavily saturated with lyrium.  It is nearly impossible to clean off entirely,” He handed the weapon back to her and turned his attention to the other Templars, “As for the remainder of you, your arms were thoroughly scrutinized before they were peace bound and returned to you.  There was no lyrium residue on any of them,” Sul’s lips twisted upward at the look of extreme discomfort the Templars exhibited at the knowledge that their belongings had been so thoroughly scrutinized, as if they feared Sul’s men would uncover some sinister secret hidden in their blades.

He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, “Therefore, it may be safely assumed that you did not murder your wards,” His head lifted back up to regard the others, “Furthermore, during this exchange and based on previous reports, I do not get the sense that there are any amongst you who have the desire or the antipathy to commit multiple acts of betrayal and murder. You possess the courage of your convictions which would prohibit that sort of behavior,” His head shifted slightly to scrutinize the Knight-Lieutenant, “For the most part.”

“Then the only logical conclusion is that the Templars released the mages.” Atiya stated.

“That is correct,” Sul nodded, “And why do you suppose that would be?”

Atiya leveled a dead-eyed gaze at the Knight-Lieutenant, “Because they stood to gain from it in some way.”

“Indeed.  Who were the ranking members of the Circle of Magi in attendance at Ostagar?” Sul asked his advisor casually.

“Senior Enchanter Uldred and Senior Enchanter Wynne,” Atiya recited from memory, tilting her horned head quizzically, “Why?”

Sul simply shook his head, “Our information from the Tower suggests that Senior Enchanter Wynne is a modest woman and seeks only to maintain the status quo so prized by her fellow Aequitarians.  Pity, as I understand she is a woman of unassailable character,” Sul’s expression hardened, “But Senior Enchanter Uldred was a man of means before his incarceration within the Tower; nobility, I believe.” Sul’s demeanor became frigid, “As you well know, Knight-Lieutenant,” He tossed a small bag upon the ground at the knight’s feet. It landed heavily and silver and gold spilled forth.

“Within one’s boot is a poor place to hide a coin purse,” Sul said very softly.

“You bastard!” Keiran bellowed and attempted to attack the other man, only to be held back by the guards present, “You told us the mages escaped using blood magic!”

Sul rose to his feet and began to pace, his head lowered in thought, “Uldred will no doubt return to the tower and engage in some form of suicidal stupidity, that’s certainly in keeping with his character,” He mused aloud before turning to Atiya, “Have our allies amongst the Libertarians been warned to avoid the man?”

“Agent Kelli forwarded the message received from the kitchen staff.”

“Let us hope that her and her fellow ‘Loyalists’ can keep themselves intact during whatever insanity Uldred and his lackeys have in store. The signs all point to something dramatic…,” Sul reached into his uniform and removed a pipe and a piece of straw.  He carefully set the straw ablaze, using it to light the pipe before crushing the flaming material in his bare fist and lazily dumping the still-smoldering remains to the floor.  He took a deep inhalation and exhaled thoughtfully, “…which concurs with the information we have received from our agents amongst the mages and Templars at the tower.”

“What?!” Ceyrabeth cried.

Captain Sul and Atiya both turned to face her, “You have a question, Ser Vallorin?”

“You…you have spies in the Templars?  And the Mages?”

Sul smiled slightly, “Tell me; what is the name of the person who prepared your meals at the Tower?”

The young woman opened her mouth to answer and found she could not.

“The name of the stablemaster’s son?  The name of the person who cleans the floors of your chambers or ensures that your weapons and armor are polished?” Sul leaned forward, “The person who empties your chamber pots?”

“I…do not know, sir.”

“The great powers of this world tend to believe they operate in a vacuum; they do not.  Behind every great institution is an army of people who assure that it manages to sustain itself day-to-day. Without these people, the societies of Thedas would collapse and yet their only reward is to remain ignored, unseen,” Sul settled back against his chair, “I see them, I know them and they know me as do so many other individuals who have been pushed aside and labeled as ‘outcasts’ or ‘pariahs’.  And what they see, I see.  What they know, I know.” He tilted his head toward the woman, “Something to consider for the future, no?”

The Templars began eyeing in each other warily, perhaps wondering if some of the people they considered to be casual acquaintances within the Tower were in fact a spies watching their every move.

Or if one of their own was.

“I see by your demeanors that you understand the implications of this,” Sul nodded, “As it should be.  But there is a more pressing matter to address,” He raised his voice. “Knight-Lieutenant, by the Code of the Templars set down by Ser Haron and Emperor Drakon I judge you guilty of desertion, corruption, and acting in a manner unbecoming of a Templar whilst in command of Templar forces. Your sentence-“

“You!”

A flurry of movement interrupted the Captain’s decree and a young man in robes threw himself at the Knight-Lieutenant, “I knew it was you! I knew it was you! I saw you!” He screamed.  The guards intercepted his frenzied flight and the young man screamed and sobbed as he clawed at the air trying to reach the other man.

“Hold,” Sul’s command cut through the air. The guards obeyed instantly and the young man collapsed into a heap, sobbing piteously. “Bring him forth,” The guard carefully lifted the boy up and brought him before the Captain, “Calm yourself.  What is your name?” He asked the boy.

“Arryn, sir.”

“And you have a grievance against this man?” Sul indicated the Knight-Lieutenant.

The lad wiped his eyes, “I was an apprentice in the Tower of Kinloch before I escaped,” he pointed a shaking finger at the Templar, “This man…he…sold me to someone visiting the tower and that man…used me.”

“This man,” Sul indicated with his hand, “was paid by someone visiting the circle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that person raped you,” It wasn’t a question. The young man just nodded, wiping his nose. “And then?”

“And then, when it was over, he took me back to the apprentice quarters and told me that if I told anyone, he’d tell everyone I was a blood mage!” he cried.

Silence had descended like death upon the proceedings.

“I see,” Sul said in a lethally soft whisper.

“This…this is hearsay!” the knight-lieutenant shrieked, his voice cracking. “This boy is a liar and an apostate and a blood mage! He hates all Templars!”

“Is that true?” Sul asked Arryn, “Do you hate all Templars?”

The young man looked up at him, no longer weeping but eyes red rimmed with rage, “Yes.”

“You see?!”

Ignoring the Templar, Sul addressed the boy, “And given the chance, would you kill Templars?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

Sul’s steepled his fingers underneath his chin in thought then nodded, “Very well.  You may kill them.  Guard, give the boy your weapon.”

The Templars cried out in protest as a guard handed the boy his sword.  The boy looked at it for a moment, then back at Sul, then finally on the Knight-Lieutenant, his expression locked in hatred.  He advanced.

“Not him.”

The boy jerked to a stop and looked at Sul, clearly confused, “Sir?”

Sul lazily pointed, “Her.”

The boy’s eyes turned upon Ceyrabeth.  There was no fear in the other woman’s expression, she was completely composed: The expression of a woman facing her death.

“No!” Keiran cried out and attempted to intervene, only to be blocked by the guards.

“I don’t understand,” Arryn stuttered.

“It’s quite simple.  You hate all Templars.  This young woman is a Templar.  Ergo, it is your desire to slay her,” he gestured, “Do so.”

“But, she’s…innocent.”

“She is a Templar, is that not crime enough?”

Arryn started to shake, “I don’t—“

“Very well then, another target,” Sul pointed again, “Him.  The young man.”

“No!” Ceyrabeth cried out, “He has done nothing! He’s just a boy!”

“So was Arryn before he was defiled at the behest of a member of your order, Templar.”

“A member! One man’s weakness and cruelty is not the Order!” she countered.

Sul returned his attention to Arryn.  The boy was still clutching the sword and was trembling violently.

“You may take your pick then, Arryn. Who amongst the Templars shall suffer first for your suffering? You intend to kill them all, so proceed.”

Arryn looked into their faces: Ceyrabeth, her face lined with fear and concern.  Keiran, looking very young and very afraid.  The other Templars wore similar expressions: fear, horror, dread.

Sympathy.

The sword dropped from Arryn’s hands.

“No,” he whispered, “They are innocent. They did not do this to me,” he pointed a shaking finger at the Knight-Lieutenant, “He did.”

“ _A_ Templar then, not _all_ Templars?” Sul asked quietly.

“Yes,” The boy whispered hoarsely and turned away from the Captain, burying his face in his hands.

Slowly, Sul rose from his chair and made his way to the young man, “Hate is a tool for the weak,” he stated, “You are above such things.”

A hand touched Arryn’s shoulder.  The boy gasped and looked up in shock, “I’m so sorry,” Ceyrabeth said gently, “But no one else is going to hurt you.”

The boy stood stiffly for a moment and then broke.  With a wail, he threw himself into the Templar woman’s arms.

“I’m so sorry!” he cried, “I’m so so sorry!”

Ceyrabeth held him and stroked his head, “Shh, it’s all right,” She looked past the boy’s shoulder to meet Sul’s bandaged gaze, “Thank you,” she said simply.

Sul nodded and then resumed his place upon the chair.

“He’s telling the truth,” Atiya said simply.

“Of course he is,” Sul replied.

“This is all--,” the Knight-Lieutenant stammered, “I demand a fair trial!”

“I have never heard an innocent man say that,” Sul commented, “Take note, Knight-Lieutenant: Tears are not the hallmark of a liar. Fear is” He edged forward in his chair, “You stink of fear.”

The knight-lieutenant shuddered and drew back as Sul continued speaking, “The Qunari have a saying ‘The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted’,” He turned his attention to the androgynous chittering creature perched at his feet, “Chirak?”

Chirak’s expression turned somber as it began to approach the Knight-Lieutenant.

“Move the other prisoners back!” Atiya called out in a clear voice. She helped the guards herd the other Templars away from the Knight Lieutenant. 

“What’s happening?” Ceyrabeth asked, still holding the mage.  The Knight-Lieutenant was well past the verge of panic.  Desperately he attempted to find shelter amongst the ranks of the other Templars and saw only condemnation in their eyes.  Sul gestured and a guard helped herd her and Arryn away from the doomed knight-lieutenant.

“The penalty for your crimes is death,” Sul stated in a cold tone, “Proceed.”

The Knight Lieutenant was panting like a wild beast, “No, no! Mercy, please!”

“That’s what I said,” Arryn whispered. 

Ceyrabeth took the boy’s head in her hands and averted his gaze, burying his face in her shoulder, “Do not watch this.”

“We are hungry,” Chirak said to the Knight-Lieutenant.

And then Chirak began to scream: a horrific wail of pain as it bent itself backwards in half.   The scream became a high-pitched screech; grating and angry.  A hideous crackling sound filled the air and Chirak’s clothing split and fell apart.  The blue flesh underneath was bubbling madly as something underneath it writhed and thrashed as if trying to break free and then its torso puckered and burst becoming a great fanged maw, drool and bits of its own ragged flesh clinging to it.

“Sweet Maker!” One of the Templars cried out and, gripping his sword and drawing it with all his might, shattering the peace binding. A blast of white powder erupted from the sheath and struck the man’s hands and face.  He screamed and fell to the ground clawing at his eyes.

The others were cowering away from the bubbling, shifting mass of meat that had been Chirak.   Tendrils of flesh and muscle were vomited out of the snarling toothed maw and begin to crack and writhe.  There was a second eruption of gore a pair of clawed arms burst out of the sides of Chirak’s rapidly shifting torso. Long strips of skin peeled back and fell from the body, the tissue underneath warped and writhing and it stretched becoming taller until it towered over the Knight-Lieutenant.

“Oh, Maker no!” the Knight-Lieutenant screamed.  He turned and attempted to flee.

The mass of bubbling flesh and teeth emitted a deafening screech pounced upon him screeching.  The tentacles wrapped around the Knight-Lieutenant’s legs and brought him down, dragging him towards itself.

“No! No! No! No! No!” he screamed and babbled, his fingernails breaking off in the dirt as he clawed for some purchase.    The now-vestigial head of Chirak continued to bounce, loosely anchored to a thin tendril of flesh.  It continued to scream and stare blankly ahead, eyes wide and unseeing, locked in a rictus of agony as if horrified by its’ own actions.

“Noooooooo!”

The beast sank its teeth into his back and hoisted him up bodily into the air.  The tentacles began to burrow through the armor and deep into the man’s flesh.  The Knight-Lieutenant began to make gurgling noises as his body was violated.  The two arms that had sprouted from the torso were tipped with huge claws; they punctured the man on each side of his chest and pulled him flush against itself.

With a final scream, the man’s armor burst.  His flesh began to bubble and writhe.  He looked down at himself uncomprehendingly and his body began to melt and flow like wax.

And the gibbering monstrosity opened its deformed mouth wide and the tentacles pushed the screaming mound of flesh that had once been a Templar in, the sound of his spine breaking was audible over the screams and the wet sound of tortured meat.

And then, he was gone.  The mouth closed.  For a moment, those assembled saw the knight-lieutenant within the creature’s translucent skin.  He was still screaming and clawing to escape as he was consumed.

There was a sound like fat sizzling on a griddle and what appeared to be spider legs erupted from the creature’s lower portions, covered in fluid.  The beast bounded away taking the screaming meat within it and the sounds faded into nothingness.

“We shall call a short recess whilst you and your fellows revisit your terms.” Sul stated.


	4. The Burdens of Command

Ceyrabeth was furious. She had spent most of her life more or less angry, but this was a feeling she hadn’t had to deal with in a long time- this pulsing, glittering scratch at the back of her eyes that periodically sent little stars floating across her vision. That thrice damned idiot Knight-Lieutenant Parette…but he was dead now, and that was half the problem. That creature…Chirak, or whatever it was called…and the master that bound it. What kind of man was this Captain Sul, that spoke with such intelligence and compassion but kept flesh-eating monsters at his side like a pet Mabari?

She wished to the Maker that she hadn’t had to speak up. It was not in her best interests to have the Captain’s eye on her. There was so much she stood to lose if he looked too deeply, and spoke too indecorously. But it had happened and now she found herself in the rather incongruous position of being spokeswoman for her fellow Templars.

Between the humiliation of the bog, the uncertainty of imprisonment, and the raw terror the creature Chirak had instilled, they could hardly still be called Templars. Even Keiran’s unfailingly upbeat outlook was faltering. He sat on the edge of the courtyard, the boy Arryn sitting beside him with a bleak look on his young face. The poor mage had simply seen too much, re-lived too much and he was just plain tired.

Stars hit Ceyrabeth’s eyes and she pulled in a deep breath, her hand automatically touching the pouch that contained her lyrium dose. No, she told herself, even though the desire to take it made her muscles clench painfully. She only had one left, having given her spare to Ser Mathias after their supply sank to the bottom of the bog.  She would be damned before she would go begging to Captain Sul for lyrium, so she had to make it last.

Stars again. She had to get herself under control. The past didn’t matter. Now, she had to make sure they all had a future. “We have to decide who is going to speak, and what we’re going to speak for. Quin, you’re the ranking…”

“What’s the point?” Ser Mathias was still looking a little green around the edges, but Ceyrabeth figured that was the result when you vomited up half your weight in bog water.  “We’re all going to die here anyway. That madman is just playing with us.”

“We don’t know that…”

“Did you get a good look at his face?” Ser Tregan said ominously before making a sign to ward off evil. “Something’s not right there. I think he’s cursed…”

Ser Corellan rolled his eyes, “You think everything is cursed, Treg. I’m surprised you don’t insist your breakfast be purified every morning…”

“Better than being tainted! I’ve seen what the taint does to a man…”

“We were all at Ostagar, Tregan…you don’t have to piss your pants over darkspawn…”

Ceyrabeth saw Keiran’s shoulders hunch at the mention of Ostagar. It had been his first real battle and it was a good thing that none of them had actually needed to fight because it was all he could do to not vomit all over his armor. She was grateful that she had been the one to find him behind the tent, head hunched over his knees and unbidden tears making tracks down his young cheeks. He was steady as a rock against human opponents; the sheer numbers and monstrous nature of the darkspawn hoard had simply been too much of a shock to the young farm boy. Ceyrabeth had just picked him up, gave him her sash to mop up the evidence of tears, and told him to stick close. She imagined that Arryn too didn’t need the thought of darkspawn of all things crowding his already tortured young mind.

“Enough!” Ceyrabeth barked. They all stopped bickering, mostly from the novelty of having Ceyrabeth command them. She was usually quiet, never questioning orders, never drawing attention to herself. Capable in a fight, but never one to boast about it later. “Do you trust your Maker, or don’t you? Remember…

‘Though all before me is shadow,

yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.’”

She looked at each of her brothers in turn, conviction making her dark eyes look impossibly large. “This is exactly what Sul wants. He wants us scared and scattered and bickering amongst ourselves. Every shot we take at each other is a shot he doesn’t have to take, and it makes us weak. We are not weak! We are Templars, and we will start acting like it.”

Her speech had the desired effect. Faces lightened as her words took hold, the Canticle of Trials adding steel to their spine as they were reminded of their holy duty. Ceyrabeth caught sight of Captain Sul’s Qunari shadow watching them from across the way and Ceyrabeth lifted her chin defiantly. By the Maker, when they came to get them, they would find them a united force and singing the Maker’s praises.

“’Oh Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights’,” Ceyrabeth felt a little awkward singing the canticle without accompaniment- she was well aware that she would never be asked to join the Orlesian Temple Choir. But she pressed on, making up in assurance what she lacked in melody. “’Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places’.”

Ser Keiran, bless his endearing heart, joined her on verse two and before long every Templar captive had joined in. Ceyrabeth felt a fierce satisfaction when Sul’s elven lieutenant finally came to fetch them and they were all singing with a reasonably harmonious fervor. With the entire company united in their song, there was absolutely no way that they hadn’t been heard in every corner of the Phoenix Legion’s compound.

It was a delicious bout of rebellion, Ceyrabeth decided, but as they entered the command tent she realized; she should have taken the lyrium.  Maker damn her, but she should have taken it. Ceyrabeth knew that the second she saw Captain Sul’s face again and instead of fear or respect she felt a fissure of rage. Not anger; that was too tame a word. She wanted to rip and tear and rend, to see that self-assured demeanor lay in tatters at her feet. She wanted to lay into his precious Phoenix Legion with all her strength and shred it to tatters, like he had done to her Order.  They were trapped, demoralized, terrified, and it was all his fault.  He reminded Ceyrabeth of her…the woman whose name Ceyrabeth never said if she could help it…all cold, quiet arrogance and nauseating self-righteousness.

She glared at Lieutenant Pellinore, who was rolling out a piece of parchment on the desk in preparation to record the negotiations. She could take him easily, she decided. He was older, not as watchful as he should be. Ceyrabeth didn’t realize that her hand was closing over her sword until Reaper Maul’s raucous voice bellowed over the tent…”Oy girlie! You’re not planning on doing anything bloody stupid are you?”

Ceyrabeth’s head swung to face him, startled out of her less-than-gentle thoughts.  She flashed him a smile, one that was indistinguishable from a teasing grin unless you happened to look in her eyes. “Would I tell you if I was?” She asked sweetly. “Especially with the threat of being…what was it? Skull fucked and beaten to death with my own arm? Or…” She turned back to Sul. “Is it cleaner to just feed me to an abomination? I’d hate to inconvenience you, Captain.”

She should tone down the sarcasm, if Pellinore’s scowl of disapproval and Maul’s throaty growl were any indication. Even the cat on Sul’s lap raised its head and narrowed its one eye at her tone. But Sul himself didn’t seem to mind; he simply held up his hand and the room immediately fell silent again. “May I assume you will be the speaker for your men, Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin?”

“Yes, sir.” She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Well, where his eyes would be anyway. “I claim a grievance, Captain.”

“Do you indeed?”

“I do.” Ceyrabeth almost faltered at his tone. _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter_ , she thought to herself, and stood a little taller. “It is in regards to our former Knight-Lieutenant. A Templar bows to no authority save the Chantry, and declaring yourself to be a higher law does not make it so. ‘As there is but one world,” She quoted the Canticle of Transfigurations with calm conviction, “’One life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.’”

“So I am a god now?” Sul asked mildly.

Nervous laughter rippled amongst the Legion despite the fact that she had just not-so-subtly insulted every single member of the Legion in one fell swoop, and implied their captain was a blasphemous pretender. Ceyrabeth half expected to be tackled to the ground and be bludgeoned to death or have her heart ripped out; she decided to keep talking until it actually happened. “Thus, I maintain that the right to judge him was not yours, but ours. You robbed us of that right, insulted our authority and that of the Maker, and therefore I request recompense for his life.”

And now she was practically calling him a thief. She heard Ser Corellan’s groan of dismay, Ser Quinlan’s whispered “Maker, protect us…” But really, what did Ceyrabeth-or any of them for that matter- have to lose? She had already seen the horrors Captain Sul and his pets were capable of and since the combination of lyrium depravation and abject terror was pumping an exorbitant amount of courage-building fury through her veins, she figured that she may as well use it to hFer advantage. At best, he would reward her for her conviction. At worst, she would be a meal for an abomination. And if Captain Sul really was just toying with them and they all died anyway, at least she could stand proud at the Maker’s side in the knowledge that she had not faltered. All that the Maker has wrought is in his hand, beloved and precious to him.

The camp had become very quiet.  Captain Sul’s expression remained utterly inscrutable. _If only I could see his eyes_.

The silence continued to stretch, transitioning from uncomfortable to unbearable. Several of the members of the Legion exchanged looks as they contemplated what form the coming apocalypse would take.

Casually, Sul reached for another strip of dried ham and fed it to the purring cat on his lap. He smiled faintly at the sight and scratched the cat lightly under the chin.

The silence continued to stretch on and Ceyrabeth felt her unease reach the breaking point, “Well?!” she demanded.

Sul calmly turned his attention to her, “Well, what?”

That bastard. He knew exactly what. “Do you acknowledge my grievance, or don’t you?” She ground out, even as she felt heat rush to her cheeks.

“Yes, I heard you the first time, Ser Knight,” Sul leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, “I’m curious to know what you’re going to do about it.”

“I—“ The young woman stopped, completely off balance. What in the Void _could_ she do about it, really?  _Don’t let him intimidate you!_ She thought, and stuck her chin out defiantly, “The Order dictates—“

“As you wish.”

Ceyrabeth stopped short again, “What?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“You wish to settle your grievance?”

“Yes!”  She felt her blood pounding in her head as the desire to pull this man limb from limb reemerged. She was dimly aware that something was off- the overwhelming desire for violence was almost frightening in its intensity, even to her.

“Very well then.  What are your terms?”

“My--?”

One eyebrow arched, “Surely you do not require another reminder of the definition of the word ‘terms’?”

Laughter began to echo around the camp as Ceyrabeth ground her teeth together so hard they hurt. That Maker-damned, unfeeling mongrel was toying with her! She clenched her fists to still the shaking in her hands, “The Order demands justice!”

“And you speak for the Order, I take it?”

Ceyrabeth injected as much acid as she could into her tone, “I realize that seeing may be hard for you, but I am the one standing here in Templar Armor…”

“I see more than you know,” his tone exceeded her own for sheer toxicity, “For instance, your armor does not fit you very well.  It was not made for you.  Is it customary for a woman in your position to inherit second-hand armor?”

“Is it customary for a man in your position to examine a lady’s garb in such detail?” She shot back.

“It customary for a man in my position to examine every detail, no matter how…insignificant they may seem at first.” More quiet laughter.  Ceyrabeth cursed herself for leaving herself so vulnerable but she simply raised her chin and glared at him. “Well Ser Ceyrabeth; if the Order demands justice, if _you_ demand justice,” the older man spread his arms magnanimously, “Claim it.”

Claim it? Claim what? Did he really think that she was going to draw her sword and attack him in the middle of his bodyguards? How truly stupid did he think she was? Ceyrabeth cast about as it began to sink in how truly alone her and her brethren really were.  Her burst of defiance was rapidly wearing off. She was foundering, and she knew it. “In the name of the Maker I…I demand that you disband your forces and surrender to the rightful authority of the Chantry!”

“No.”

Ceyrabeth was flailing madly for some stable ground, a position of strength, anything that would allow her to regain her equilibrium, “’No’?.” She almost shrieked, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“The word is self-explanatory,” He stroked the cat at his lap with practiced ease, “I should think that the implications are as well.”

“The Order dictates—“

“What the Templar order, or the Orlesian Chantry, or Andraste herself dictates is not my concern,” he explained evenly, “Should the Maker wish to make a request in person, I will consider it.”

Ceyrabeth was too stunned to speak; from any other man it would have sounded thunderously arrogant bordering on buffoonery. From him, said with that calm tone that neither boasted nor grandstanded but simply stated…it was deeply disturbing. “You…you are a traitor and a murderer and I will not allow…”

“I am a warrior,” Sul interjected, “And I claim no allegiance to the Orlesian Chantry, the Templar Order or the monarchs of Thedas, I have betrayed nothing and no one.”

“A child says ‘I did not trip him’ when his brother steps on a toy he deliberately put in his brother’s way…but still he is punished for it.”

A dark shadow settled across Sul’s face, “You may dispense with the platitudes.  Do not presume to moralize to me, Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin,” Sul said in a quietly savage tone undertone. “Not even under a banner of parlay.”

Ceyrabeth felt a shiver work its way down her spine as for the first time she clearly understood the kind of man that could command creatures like Chirak and Reaper Maul.  The kind of man that she should be very careful of if she wanted to get her brothers out of this place alive.

“I shall share with you a lesson that I have learned,” Sul interjected. He had not raised his voice, but for some reason Ceyrabeth found her words withering on her tongue like so much fruit rotting on the vine.  “Orders and other groups that feel it within their power to dictate the actions of others tend to have two tools at their disposal: the coin or the sword,” Sul reclined in his chair, “You have neither.  You and your Order can neither buy me with treasures nor bully me with threats.  I will not be reasoned with nor negotiated with in such a fashion.”

“Then you lied.” Beth forced out. “Why are we standing here, if you never meant to listen?”

Sul’s expression darkened further, “I did not lie.  I shall indeed listen, but do not think that your position or affiliations can be used to coerce any manner of concessions from me.”

He rose to his feet, dislodging the cat from his lap, “Here, in this place, before me and before the eyes of the Maker itself, there is no Orlesian Chantry.  There is no Templar Order.  There is only the will of the Phoenix Legion.  _My_ will,” He turned his back on the woman and sat back in his chair, “You may not believe that we are the ‘rightful’ authority, but as far as you and your Templar brethren are concerned, I am the sole authority,”

He steepled his fingers, “You are alone, Crusader and you have no power here.”

Whether it was the lyrium withdrawal, the memories of past abuses at the hands of another or sheer fear, she couldn’t say but Ceyrabeth felt her control snap, “To the Void with you!” Ceyrabeth snarled, drawing her sword, careful to keep the scabbard pointing away from her face. She shouldered the guards out of the way, intent in her blind fury to plunge her weapon into the chest of the man that surveyed her with such an air of dismissiveness.

She closed the distance quickly but before she could strike she heard something growl,

**“No…..hurt…..mass----terrrr!”**

A shape streaked out of the darkness, colliding into the woman with the force of a golem and sending her sprawling to the ground.  She was dimly aware of claws raking deep furrows into her armor and snapping teeth trying to get to her face as whatever was attacking her hissed and spat.   Ceyrabeth thrust her sword out blindly only to have it knocked out of her hand with such force that she felt her wrist break with an audible _snap_!

She brought her other arm up in a desperate attempt to defend herself, getting her first clear look at her assailant.  Sul’s pet cat proceeded to plunge its fangs into her armor, penetrating the mail as if it wasn’t there. Its’ one eye glared hatefully as it began to glow a dim red.  Then his other eye opened slowly and revealed a burning orb of roiling fire.  Ceyrabeth felt her gauntlet begin to inexplicably heat up. The heat spread to her breastplate, and soon she couldn’t help but scream as she was cooked within her own armor.

Suddenly, the cat yowled deafeningly and Ceyrabeth tore her arm free. She clamped both hands over her ears as the high-pitched scream rolled over her like a wave.  She felt blood began to leak from her eyes, ears, and nose and spatter with a sizzling hiss upon the armor that was now glowing a dim orange as it continued to burn her body.

“That will do,” Came Sul’s soft voice. 

The cat ceased its attack turned to face him, its ears flat against its skull, **“Kill for Massss-ter!”** It hissed, **“Eat its’ face!”**

“I am unharmed.  Please come here.”

The cat turned back to face Ceyrabeth. She hardly noticed through the agony of her flesh beginning to blister.  Then he swiped a claw across her face, drawing blood, and jumped off her.

This didn’t even register to Ceyrabeth- she was more concerned with removing the burning armor from her body.  Ser Keiran and Ser Quinlan raced to assist.  After a few frantic seconds of blinding pain and fear, the breastplate fell to the ground with a dull sound, her mutilated gauntlet following shortly after.  The metal continued to glow angrily in the dirt for a handful of moments before it began to cool.

The cat raced back to Sul and jumped in his lap,“ **I good kitty**.”

Sul smiled and scratched him behind the ears, “Always.”

The cat nuzzled his scarred face against Sul’s bandages, purring loudly before curling up into a ball upon his lap.  Sul stroked his back gently, “Osen; my bodyguard,” He offered by way of introduction.

Osen lifted up its head and hissed at Ceyrabeth as she struggled to her feet before laying his head back down.

Ceyrabeth, not yet able to speak, just glared at it with eyes glazed with pain and hissed back. Ser Quinlan tried to speak forcefully but he was rattled to the core. “What manner of abomination--?!”

“Former abomination, if we’re being truthful,” Sul scratched Osen lightly under the chin before turning to Atiya, “Please send for the White Vanguards and Sister Giselle to tend the young woman’s wounds.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And find Osen something large to dismember.”

“I have a Bronto available.”

Sul nodded his approval as Atiya looked down at Osen.

“Osen, come.”

The cat opened its one eye, eyed the Qunari with disinterest and closed it again.

“Osen,” Sul whispered into his tufted ear, “Meat.”

Osen quickly sprang off his lap and rubbed against Atiya’s shins.  Atiya gave Sul an even look and he shrugged slightly before she and Osen departed.

“I challenge you!” Ceyrabeth cried out staggering to her feet bits of her clothing still smoldering. A tiny voice in her head was screaming at her that this was the worst possible idea, and she didn’t consider herself to be particularly suicidal…but something had broken irreparably within her. She had held herself back too long and couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to regain control. “Trial by combat for the murder of Knight-Lieutenant Parette!”

“Do you indeed?” Sul asked, keeping any implication of mockery from his tone.

“Unless you’re a coward! You hide behind your demons and abominations and don’t dare raise a finger for yourself…!”   She caught the scent of alcohol and violence before a voice hissed in her ear.

“Go ahead.  Call the Cap’n a coward again,” Maul seethed, “Please.”

The woman refused to be baited and kept her eyes fixed on Captain Sul, “Well?”

“Oh yes,” Sul mused aloud, “I remember.  This is when I am to erupt in a display of injured pride and rush forth to challenge a well-trained combat veteran easily several years my junior and trust that my ego will allow me to replace what the inevitable decay of time may have robbed me of,” he leaned forward, “I’m willing to admit that your eagerness to fight is refreshing, given your current condition. But do not mistake any regard I have for your courage as stupidity.” Sul gestured to Maul.

“Down you go,” Maul gave Ceyrabeth a casual shove and the injured woman’s legs buckled underneath her.  She crashed to the ground, crying out in pain on impact, “That’s for calling the Cap’n a ‘coward’ ya moisten wench!” The elf then made an obscene hand gesture at the fallen knight before turning his attention to Sul, “Do you need anything else Cap’n?”

Sul smile was barely there but it was enough to make the elven woman want to explode, “No, thank you Sergeant,” His expression hardened as he scrutinized the young woman, “I believe the point has been made.”

“Yes, sir!” Maul saluted crisply and, giving Ceyrabeth a snort of derision.

“Your commander was not murdered,” Sul said quietly, “He was executed for dereliction of duty and behavior unbecoming a Templar officer.  Your Orlesian Chantry would have done the same in the unlikely event that Parette was subjected to a fair trial.”

Ceyrabeth couldn’t determine what part of her body hurt most: the claw wounds, the burns, the shattered wrist, or the cracked ribs from being thrown from her horse in the bog but she struggled to her feet anyway. She would be damned if she would show her frailty to this fiend, “Do you remember what it was to have a conscience?” The rage was receding, taking with it the strength she desperately needed.  Her voice was almost pleading, her sable eyes looking wider than ever in a face drawn with pain. “Kindness? Decency?”

“More than you know,” Sul replied almost too quietly for her to hear.  His expression softened. Became almost vulnerable.  Ceyrabeth couldn’t decide before it was gone entirely. “Perhaps you should ask your former Knight-Lieutenant about decency and conscience?” Captain Sul’s tone remained soft but the words could freeze molten stone, “It’s said that you can tell a great deal about a soldier by who they choose to serve. Your master was an immoral and incompetent man who betrayed his wards for profit.  Tell me, Ceyrabeth…what does that say about you? Or am I to believe that you were blind and utterly oblivious to your former commander’s corruption?”

His words scourged the young woman raw. Ceyrabeth went white to the lips.  She swayed, trying to find something to clutch for support and found nothing. Nothing could ease the fact that Sul was absolutely right, and Ceyrabeth knew it, could not dispute it in the slightest. She felt cold wash over her, threatening to drive her to her knees.  It was the ghost of an old sensation that coursed through her body- the frigid bite of a blade wielded by a lover as it was driven into her body all the way up to the hilt without mercy or affection.

“Sister Giselle will tend to you now.  Dismissed.”

Ceyrabeth dimly felt gentle fingers on her arm and a quiet Orlesian voice, “Come away, child,” Her grip tightened, “This battle cannot be won.  Not yet.”

Ceyrabeth couldn’t walk, could barely think. She just continued to stare wide-eyed at the man who had so easily found the most hidden of her shames and dragged it into the unforgiving light. She didn’t know whether she wanted to rip out his heart or throw herself at his feet, pour out her shame and beg for forgiveness.

“Take heart, Ser Knight,” Sul’s voice slid into Ceyrabeth’s thoughts like a stiletto, “You’ll have your opportunity for justice…or vengeance should you so choose.”

Ceyrabeth might have nodded, she was unsure.  Instead, she allowed Sister Giselle to lead her away from the command tent.   When she looked up, she the saw eyes of her brothers accusing her for her complacency. Quinlan, who had vouched for her many times when others tried to label her inadequate.  Keiran, who had looked up to her, had been her friend. Corellan who, though she always rebuffed him, had seen something lovely about her that she did not see.  She tried to think of something noble to say, she tried to think of the Chant. Her shame silenced her and she allowed herself to led away like the walking dead.

“You appear to have struck the girl a mortal blow,” Atiya commented tonelessly.

“So it would seem,” Sul replied quietly, “I’m curious to see if she has the strength to recover.”

“And if she does not?”

“Then she is weak and she does not matter.”

“As you say, Captain.”

.:*:.

“You knew!”

Ceyrabeth didn’t even bother turning around as Keiran rushed past her and Sister Giselle and spun about to confront her, “You knew what Parette was doing! The boy! The deal with Uldred and the mages! All of it!”

“Yes,” she replied softly, “I knew.”

“And you did nothing?!”

“I went to the Knight-Captain about the boy…he said that they would take care of it.”

“And you believed him?”

“Obviously.”

“And Uldred?”

Ceyrabeth’s silence told Keiran everything he wanted to know. He shook his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe you would…”

Her control snapped, “He was our commanding officer! Our leader!  We are Templars! We obey! We are called to a higher purpose! We do not question! That is the will of the Maker and that is the law!”

Keiran laughed bitterly, “No, we’re not. When Parette took that gold and you said nothing, we lost our honor and our decency.  You’re not a Templar anymore, none of us are.  You’re a whore and you’ve made us all whores!”

His head rocked back from the force of the blow as Ceyrabeth’s hand slapped him hard across the face.

“You will not speak to me like that!”  Privately she was horrified by her actions, but she could not afford to show weakness.  Not here, not while under the scrutiny of Sul and his minions, “Like it or not, I am still your commanding officer.”

Keiran gently touched his lips and drew back blood.  He gave a little, broken laugh before looking back at Ceyrabeth.

“Not anymore.”

Slowly, he unwound the peace knot from around his hilt.

“What are you doing?” Ceyrabeth demanded.

He didn’t answer her, instead he slowly drew his blade with exacting care.  Ser Quinlan and Ser Corellan exchanged worried looks as the boy scrutinized the weapon in his hands, “All my life,” He murmured, “I thought I understood…” He looked back at the young woman, “Well, I understand now.  And I hate it.”

And then, he threw his sword into the mud at Ceyrabeth’s feet.

“Keiran, you can’t do this!”

“I can,” he replied simply as he dropped his shield and helm into the mud, “I am.”

“But why?!”

“Because I can’t follow you and follow my conscience at the same time,” He replied sadly, “What we are doing; this isn’t the Maker’s work.  Not anymore.”

“But where will you go?”

“Who says I’ll go anywhere?”

Ceyrabeth followed that thought to its logical conclusion and her eyes went wide, “No! I will not allow you to pledge your life to that madman!”

“It’s my life, Beth.  And you don’t have a say with what I do with it anymore.”

Beth. The formerly-affectionate nickname was enough to make Ceyrabeth want to throw her arms around him and beg him not to leave. Instead, she straightened her back and injected a chill into her voice, “It’s Ser Ceyrabeth, Serah Keiran. I have earned my title, regardless of how you feel about it.” She deliberately turned her back on him. “Now go. I think I hear your master calling. Maybe if you sit at his feet, he’ll feed you bits of meat as well as he does for his pet demons.”

She turned her head as he passed, refusing to watch him walk away. She dashed a hand across her eyes, angry enough that she was crying over a traitor but absolutely furious that the motion brought pain from her shattered wrist. She was so tired of being in pain, of always being the one who was crushed and broken.

“And what of you?” Ceyrabeth whirled on Quinlan and Corellan. “Anything to say?”

“Nothing, Knight-Lieutenant.” Ser Quinlan answered evenly as Corellan mutely shook his head. Quinlan actually had plenty to say, Ceyrabeth could tell, but like the excellent soldier that he was he was keeping it to himself. Ceyrabeth had no doubt that Corellan would follow Keiran, but quietly, in the dead of night, with no scenes and no goodbyes. She had no idea how many of the others she would lose to that…that…eyeless whoreson and his insanity but right then, she felt the loss of all of them.

“Come, child. Sit down. You are shaking,” Sister Giselle parted the tent flaps and motioned her to a bunk.  “This is my assistant, Sister Petrice,” She gestured to a severe-looking young woman who indicated the arrival of the injured Templars with barely a nod of acknowledgement.

“Good afternoon, Ser Templar,” Sister Petrice said stiffly in a thick Free Marchers accent.

Ceyrabeth realized with a start that they were in the healer’s tent. She was shaking and suddenly her knees buckled. She dimly realized that she hadn’t hit the ground because Ser Quinlan had caught her and was laying her down on a nearby cot. “Quin…” Ceyrabeth cried out as the burns made themselves known with a vengeance. “You should have been the one to speak…I never should have…”

“Hush, Ceyrabeth.” He opened the pouch at his belt and gave the vial within a gentle shake before uncorking it and pouring it down her throat.

The lyrium hit her blood just as Sister Giselle placed her hands over her chest and began work on the burns and cracked ribs. She laughed then sobbed at the sweet release of it, the lack of physical agony.  But then the rush of emotional anguish hit like a landslide, until the combination of two opposing feelings was too much and she finally fell into blessed darkness.

.:*:.

It was a very subdued Ser Ceyrabeth that was brought back to the command tent later. She had deliberately left off arms and armor-without it she looked as vulnerable as she felt, all scarred, wiry arms and big, wide eyes. She stepped forward before she could lose courage and went down on one knee before Captain Sul, head bowed so low her red hair tumbled in a loose curtain about her face.

“I fully acknowledge my earlier disrespect to you, Captain,” She said, her voice carrying clearly to all corners of the tent. “However, my men are innocent of my actions and I beg your mercy on them. If you will release those who wish to go, with arms and armor intact and supplies enough to reach civilization, I stand prepared to accept whatever terms you see necessary to mete out. I claim no concession for myself.”

A moment of silence and then, “Rise Ser Knight,” Sul said cordially. “I am glad to see that you have regained your honor and integrity.  You needn’t grovel to me.”

Ceyrabeth frowned in confusion as she struggled to her feet.  Pain wracked her body- even the healers couldn’t fix everything, she thought wryly- and she stumbled until she felt strong hands bracing her.  She looked up in surprise into Atiya’s expressionless face.

“Thank you,” Ceyrabeth said.

“It is the Captain’s way,” She offered flatly, “And it is my way.”

“I see,” Ceyrabeth replied quietly. Now that she had a chance to see Atiya’s face up close, she felt a pang of sadness- the woman’s scars around her lips looked raised and painful as if someone had stitched her mouth closed at some point.

“We have a matter to discuss,” Sul informed them.

Ceyrabeth heard footsteps behind her and she turned. She felt a sharp pain pierce her heart as Keiran entered the room, no longer garbed in his Templar armor but instead in a homespun tunic and breeches.

“This man has petitioned for enlistment into the Phoenix Legion,” Captain Sul explained, not unkindly.

Ceyrabeth felt tears burn in her eyes but she simply nodded.

Keiran took a deep breath- A nervous habit, Ceyrabeth knew- before striding confidently forward and prostrating himself at Sul’s feet, “I pledge myself to your cause, Captain Sul. My sword and my life is yours.”

“Noted,” Sul said, “Your petition is refused.”

“What?!” Keiran and Ceyrabeth both exclaimed.

“Your sword and your life are not yours own,” He nodded towards Ceyrabeth, “They are hers; your commander. And I will not be party to desertion.”

Right then, Ceyrabeth forgot how to talk and Keiran wasn’t much better. He recovered first, though he still sounded stunned, “But…but there must be hundreds of people who’ve joined you that deserted!”

“Those that you speak of did not have their commanding officer present at the time, as one would expect,” Sul gestured to the young woman, “Your commander is here, however. If you wish to enlist, you will do so with her permission or not at all,” Sul opened his arms, “We are still abiding by the rules of war, no?”

 “But…but—“Keiran spluttered.

“I give it,” Ceyrabeth whispered. The idea of her being his commander had once been laughable to her. Years ago, he had posed a question to her, stammering but earnest. If she had answered that question differently then, she might have the right to hold him back now. But she hadn’t, and the tenuous link they had as temporary commander and soldier didn’t seem strong enough.

“What?!” Ser Quinlan cried aloud.

Ceyrabeth lifted her head, “Ser Keiran has my blessings to join the Phoenix Order.”

Keiran smiled, hugged Ceyrabeth before she could dodge. “Thank you Beth.”

She didn’t even bother to correct his familiarity or rebuke him for the sudden pain in her aching ribs his embrace caused. Her next words came reluctantly, tasting like ash on her tongue. “I wish to submit a petition to join as well.”

This time, every face in the Command Tent locked shocked….Every face except Sul’s and Atiya’s.  Atiya wore her usual placid expression and Sul’s expression was inscrutable.

 “Andraste’s flaming arse!” Maul swore softly as the remaining Templars went into an uproar.

When the furor died down, Sul regarded the pair of supplicants, “Why?” He asked simply.

Ceyrabeth licked dry lips; she had to be very careful, “Because I—“

“If the next words you speak are not the unadulterated truth, Maul will shatter every bone in your body.”

Maul grinned broadly as he began to crack his knuckles loudly.  “Shit,” Ceyrabeth sighed.

“Beth!” Keiran said, aghast, “You swore!”

“Yes, thank you Keiran, I noticed,” She rubbed her temples and exhaled hard before looking up at Sul, “I’m going to join because you need to be watched.  The Maker, Andraste, the Chantry, everything belief that I hold dear tells me that you and your Legion must be ended, and the best way to do that is to here,” She looked straight into his bandaged face, “Know your enemy—“

“—as you would know yourself,” Sul finished, “Where did you hear that?” He asked curiously.

Ceyrabeth frowned at his tone, “I enjoy reading.”

Sul didn’t respond right away, he settled into his high-backed chair and rubbed a finger across his upper lip, “So, you will stop me?”

Ceyrabeth nodded, “Yes.”

“Through whatever means necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Even through my death?”

Ceyrabeth closed her eyes, knowing that her next words could very well be her last, “Yes.”

“Bitch!” Maul roared as he stormed towards the girl, “I’m going to fold you in half!”

“Cease,” Sul instructed in a calm voice infused with steel.

“But Cap’n--!”

Sul shifted his attention from Ceyrabeth to Maul and raised a single eyebrow.

“This hopped-up little chantry rat says she’s going to murder you because her Chantry doesn’t like you!  I’m not going to let--!”

“That is correct, Sergeant,” Sul’s voice cracked like a whip, “It is not your duty to ‘let’ anything happen.  You are a soldier under my command.  And if you wish to remain so, you will calm yourself and stand down.”

Maul’s expression crumpled under Sul’s scorn, “Cap’n, I—“

Sul held up his hand, “You are a loyal man, Reaper Maul and that loyalty is appreciated,” He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, “Take heart, I have no intentions of being assassinated. Not by her or anyone,” Sul raised his voice to be heard by everyone else, “My duty to Thedas remains and so I shall remain,” His tone became more pointed, “Regardless of the wishes of the Orlesian Chantry, The Maker, or a certain ex-Templar, however dedicated she may be,” Sul returned his attention to Maul, “Return to your post, Sergeant.”

Maul saluted smartly, grinning madly, “Yes, sir!” He spun on his heels and leveled a finger at Ceyrabeth, “Touch him and I’ll make you beg for death before the end.  Got that?!”

Ceyrabeth swallowed nervously at the zeal in the elf’s expression: he meant it. It didn’t halt her conviction, didn’t change her wishes in the slightest, but it did make her aware of just how carefully she would have to tread.

Maul gave Captain Sul a slightly embarrassed looking shrug and hurried off as Ceyrabeth’s brain caught up with Sul’s words, “‘Ex-Templar’?” She hazarded.

“Your petition to join the Legion is approved,” Sul informed her, “As is Keiran’s.”

More disbelieving looks were exchanged along with quiet exclamations that their captain had taken leave of his senses.

Atiya leaned down to whisper in Sul’s ear, “My Captain, are you certain that is wise?”

“No,” Sul replied with a small smile, “But it should be interesting,” He got to his feet, “I do have one question though for our would-be spy and assassin.”

“Yes, sir?” Ceyrabeth managed to choke out. _Better get used to it_ she thought darkly as Captain Sul’s smile took on an edge.

“How long have you been masquerading as human?”


	5. Becoming Known

Ceyrabeth felt the world tilt underneath her feet.  “I don’t know what you’re—“

“Do not lie,” Sul retorted, “Not to me nor to yourself,” A shadow flickered across his features as he rose from his chair and approached her, “You’ve done that for far too long, I imagine.”

“Beth?” Keiran asked, looking very confused, “What’s he talking about?”

“I….I…” She stammered.

“ _Ma fael na ma valla da shiral_ ,” Sul whispered softly, “’My honor and my life are one,’”

“I don’t…understand.” Keiran’s eyes flickered from Ceyrabeth to Sul.

The Captain elaborated, “It was the solemn oath of the Emerald Knights of the Dales, protectors of their homeland before the Orlesian Chantry saw fit to exterminate them all during their so called ‘exalted’ march.  And I-“

Suddenly, he stumbled and nearly fell.  Atiya was at his side in an instant, holding him steady, “Captain,” She said in her even tone.

The ghost of a sardonic smirk crossed his features, “The perils of age, I fear, old friend,” He placed his hand over her larger one “I am well, Atiya, thank you.  Release me,” she did so and Sul continued as if nothing had occurred, “I sincerely doubt you learned about the Emerald Knights within the halls of the illustrious Orlesian Chantry.  There is only one other alternative.”

“I…I don’t,” Ceyrabeth looked about frantically like a caged animal.

“Show me your ears.”

“What?  No!”

“I am not in the habit of repeating my commands,” Sul’s tone brooked no further argument.

Her jaw took on a stubborn set that was becoming painfully familiar. “No!”

“Beth?” Keiran asked puzzled, “Just show him your ears.”

With a shaking hand, Ceyrabeth drew back her red hair to reveal her ears: they were unremarkable except that they appeared to have been mutilated midway past the auricle.

“I was captured and tortured, ” Ceyrabeth stammered out.

“You were tortured,” Sul nodded.  He reached out to take hold of her face and she found that she could not pull away, “But the angle of these cuts tells me that it was by your own hand.  You docked your ears, like a beast, so that you could be counted amongst the ranks of Andraste’s faithful as their wretched Chantry dictates,” His touch was feverishly hot and it seared Ceyrabeth’s skin like a branding iron though she could not recoil.  She stared into the folds of his bindings and was certain she saw movement beneath them. “Why must it be thus?” Sul whispered as he ran his fingers lightly over the mutilated tissue.  Ceyrabeth noted that his hands appeared oddly smooth and young-looking for a man his age, “Why must they take all that it is fair, all that is natural and good, and diminish it for the sin of uniqueness?” The elven woman was not certain if it was his words or his tone but it made something in her ache in kind.

Carefully, Sul arranged her crimson locks to cover her ears again and then placed his hands upon them once again, “This will hurt.”

“Wha--?” Ceyrabeth began and then she felt something press against her flesh and penetrate her.

Her mouth and eyes opened wide as she felt her flesh begin to soften like wax between his thumbs and forefingers; the feeling was indescribable and she had a horrid flashback to her former commander being consumed by Chirak. She began to convulse, her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth began to open and close gasping like a fish for air.

“Beth!” Keiran cried out, unable to see what was being done to her but clearly able to see the effects wrack her thin body.

“No,” Atiya’s voice stated calmly and her hand settled on his shoulder gently, but as firm as an iron lock. Keiran could only look on helplessly as Ceyrabeth continued to shudder and shake, the blood rushing to her face with such force that she seemed almost to glow.

Suddenly, Sul released her and Ceyrabeth collapsed to the floor, her body spasming uncontrollably.

“Beth!” Keiran lunged under Atiya’s hand and she released him to attend Sul who carefully stepped away from Ceyrabeth’s form. Keiran raced to her side and reached out to her.

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself for protection and to her shame she began to cry- hard, painful sobs that seemed like they tore her throat with each pull. Nothing- NOTHING- she had ever felt came close to this, this utter and complete violation that wracked her down to her very core.

“What did you do to me?!” Ceyrabeth demanded of Sul.

“No worse than what you had already done to yourself,” Sul replied wearily, “Had you even bled as a woman yet before you carved apart your own body to appease them?”   He held up an iron sunburst amulet, the symbol of the Chantry held together by a simple leather thong. She gasped and her hands shot to her throat where the amulet had once rested.

“Beth,” Keiran whispered in shock and pointed at her head.  Ceyrabeth’s hands hurried back up to her ears:  They were long and perfectly shaped tapering to a delicate point.

“I--” Shock robbed her of her words as she removed a small piece of metal from her tunic that she kept for sending signals and examined herself in the reflection.  The metal twisted and distorted her image but there was no ignoring the two elven ears that now adorned either side of her head.

“Captain, calm yourself,” Atiya’s voice broke in flatly.  Ceyrabeth turned to look and could not suppress a look of horror.  Sul had the iron symbol clenched tightly in his fist and soon blood began to dribble from between his fingers.  Suddenly the bandages around his eyes also began to soak with blood and soon twin rivulets ran down his pained face.

“Why must it be thus?” He whispered.

“You’re bleeding!” She said too surprised to do any more than state the obvious.

Sul hesitated and then wiped away the blood leaking from under his bandages, “No,” He replied, “I am not,” He turned his head, “Lieutenant Pellinore.”

“Sir?” The elven lieutenant stepped forward.

“See to our newest recruits and then report back to me,” He pointed at Ceyrabeth who was still shaking like a leaf, “See that her hair is trimmed. She has hidden for long enough.”

“Yes, sir!”

Sul turned his attention back to the serene Qunari, “Atiya, take me back to my tent.”

“Yes, sir,” Carefully, Atiya helped the slighter man away, resting the majority of his frame against her larger body.

“What have you done to me?” Ceyrabeth cried out.

Sul did not turn, “Corrected an error in judgment.  One of many such corrections to come.”

“Your arrogance will be your undoing!  You defy the Chantry, Andraste, and The Maker Himself.  The armies of the righteous will march upon you and destroy you utterly!” Ceyrabeth screamed, tears of rage, pain and fear running down her face.  Maker but she _hated_ feeling so fragile but the madness of the day’s events had taken their toll.

“My arrogance,” Sul said softly.  He then turned to face the enraged woman.  She stood proud and defiant, filled with righteous fury, “My arrogance…” He turned his head to address the Qunari, “Atiya I would address our people.”

Atiya removed a large ornate horn from her belt and blasted a series of sharp notes.  The resonance of the sound made Ceyrabeth’s bones vibrate.

“The Captain would speak!” Atiya’s voice boomed across the camp.  It didn’t take long before men, women, and even a few children huddled around as Atiya led Sul to a raised earthen mound.  Pellinore stepped forward and removed a small vial from his belt.  He tossed it upon the ground and a large plume of green flame exploded into existence with a loud _whoosh_ that silenced the crowd at once.

“Thank you Atiya,” Sul said before turning his attention to the vast crowd that had gathered the green bonfire, “Brothers and Sisters of the Phoenix Legion, hear me!” He turned to gesture at Ceyrabeth, “We have been accused of acting in defiance of the Orlesian Chantry and by default in defiance of the blessed prophet Andraste, and the Maker Himself,”  The crowd began to scowl at Ceyrabeth who kept her face carefully neutral, determined to stand her ground. “I would answer these charges. May I speak for you as well?”

A roar of approval cascaded the answer.

“Thank you.” Sul cleared his throat, “I derive a great deal of consolation that you have decided to allow my voice to represent your will.  The severity of these charges cannot be overstated,” He bent down to pick up a handful of stones,

“Heresy,” He tossed a stone to land at Ceyrabeth’s feet.

“Blasphemy.”

Another stone.

“Treason.”

The final stone lay at the elven woman’s feet.

“According to the law of the Orlesian Chantry, there is only one sentence for these crimes: death!  A slow death wrought with humiliation so that our suffering may serve as an example to those who would dare follow.  No peace in the next world, only an existence in the dark, banished from the Maker’s sight.  Unwanted.  Unmourned.  Damned. What are we to do about this?” Sul asked the crowd.

The few suggestions offered were extremely graphic and exceedingly final in their resolution.  Every word out of their angry mouths made Beth stand straighter, her muscles tense. Keiran and Quinlan moved to flank her, their eyes wary.

“Why are we here?” Sul’s tone became quieter yet still somehow carried to all assembled, “How is it that this ragtag band of heretics, pariahs, and outcasts have now come to form the largest privately administered military force in Ferelden and now finds itself declared the adversary of the largest institution upon Thedas? Do we fear that if we do not take up arms that those in power will see fit to destroy us for our defiance? Or is it because we have seen the state of this world with eyes unclouded by privilege, hypocrisy, or sanctimony, and have found it wanting?”

He cleared his throat again and Atiya handed her his waterskin from which he took a long drink.

“Thank you,” He coughed once, “Here we stand together, from all corners of the world in defiance of tyranny. You are all free men!” He roared suddenly making her and the Templars jump, “You have not been bought or bullied to risk all that you are in this world, not for me, nor for yourselves, but for each other! For Thedas!”  He took another drink of water and his tone reverted to its earlier quiet intensity, “The Orlesian Chantry, The Order of Templars, The Circles of Magi, The Nobility, and every power and order from Amaranthine Ocean to the Volca Sea would label us ‘rebels’, ‘malcontents’ and worse.   Why?  What is they fear?  We possess only a fraction of their numbers, their wealth, their influence.  Do they fear our methods? Our ideals?  Our way of life?  Or do they fear something far more dangerous than any of these things:

“The truth,” He turned his bandaged gaze out amongst the assembled throng, “The truth. The fact of the matter is that those who would cast us down would have us disregard the truth, even as it stands there proudly for all the world to see, mighty and unassailable.   The truth which has been obscured and twisted, perverted and corrupted until it is almost unrecognizable.  And not through any foul Tevinter plot or unholy alliance of blood mages and demons, no.  No not through these means, but by the unyielding arm and unforgiving gaze of the Orlesian Chantry who has declared it to be blasphemy and us damned beyond redemption for believing in it.”

The Templars shifted their gaze to their feet uncomfortably save for Ceyrabeth, whose fists were so tightly clenched that it sent jolts of pain through her entire arm.

“I say unto all of you that this is no mere peasant uprising or heretical movement, rather that this is the most important crusade since Andraste’s march upon the Imperium. Because what it deals with is the very nature of man and The Maker.”

Many eyes widened at the boldness of the last statement.  Ceyrabeth’s features became flushed and angry; she opened her mouth to speak, “Don’t even think about it, princess,” Maul warned her, cracking his knuckles loudly, “I’ll pull those fancy new ears right off your bloody head.  Now shut your gob.”

Ceyrabeth fell mutinously silent as Atiya handed Sul a stack of papers and an amulet depicting Andraste in a finely detailed ivory inlay.

“I have here transcriptions of letters, a correspondence between a Mother…,” He frowned and ran his fingers over the letters, “…A Mother Dorothea in which she states her concerns about the treatment of mages in the city of Kirkwall and the state of the alienage in Denerim.  These letters were addressed to Lord Seeker Lambert Van Reeves. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this entity, The Seekers of Truth are a form of secret police that answers to only the highest ranks of The Orlesian Chantry Matriarchy.  The Seekers of Truth are tasked with investigating The Knights Templar for signs of corruption or abuses of power,” Sul smiled slightly, “I imagine those assembled here would have much to discuss with them given the opportunity.”

There was a roll of laughter that was equal parts scorn, contempt, and amusement.  Keiran felt his cheeks go red and Ceyrabeth’s temper threatened to snap her rigid self-control once more, though she said nothing.

“Now, in these letters, Mother Dorothea cites several cases of Templar misconduct ranging from use of the rite of Tranquility as a punitive measure to accounts of rape, torture, and murder, amongst not only the mages they were sworn to protect, but also against elves, dwarves, Qunari. Men, women, and children too poor or too frightened to protect themselves. And even against one another: Templars of conscience, of righteousness, murdered in their beds by their own for daring to question those in power.”

Sounds of disbelief rippled through the crowd as he continued.  ‘Now, “Revered Mother Dorothea quotes a passage from the Chant of Light,” He cleared his throat, “’All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand. Beloved and precious to Him,’ Threnodies twelve-five.  She quotes this passage and asks the Lord Seeker why this does not apply to mages, elves and others asking him ‘Are we not all equal in the eyes of the Maker? In his love and compassion?’”  Sul looked out among the crowd, “Are we not indeed?”

He took another drink, “I shall now read to you the Lord Seeker’s reply.  He starts by quoting a passage from Benedictions; ‘Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.’  You may be familiar with this passage. It is the one that the Orlesian Chantry cites the most often to justify whatever action they have taken no matter how brutal,” Sul frowned at the parchments in his hand, “I cannot help but wonder if their actions are what Andraste intended or not, but I digress: Lord Seeker Lambert continues with the following,

“’What you consider to be compassion is nothing more than naiveté and fool idealism.  Mages cannot be treated the same as people. Each and every one is a threat to the safety of themselves and those around them.  Each and every one; an abomination waiting to happen’,” Sul smiled bitterly, “I’ll pause a moment to let everyone ponder that sentiment.”

The crowd’s mood continued to darken.  Hands tightened on sword hilts, bows, and staffs.

“He goes on to repeat that term ‘Fool idealism’ many times in these letters when Mother Dorothea talks about caring for those who cannot care for themselves or when allowing mercy or pity to dictate their actions.  Well, what ideals would the Lord Seeker prefer, I wonder? Ideals that instead embrace intolerance, violence, and fear?  I think not and here is the crux of the matter,” Sul leaned forward in earnest, “What the Lord Seeker wants is for the Orlesian Chantry and those within in it to behave as The Templars do and as the Seekers do. A Chantry that will do what it is told:  A Chantry that does not question, a Chantry that is filled with the devout in perfect lockstep, fueled by nothing more than righteous anger and blind obedience,” He gestured at Ceyrabeth, “A Chantry that this young woman would be proud to be a part of.”

 “Now these,” He handed the parchments back to Atiya and took from her a letter, “are letters written by a Templar in Kirkwall by the name of Alrik Otto.”

“Oh, Maker, no!” Ser Quinlan bemoaned.

“Who is that?” Keiran asked him with a frown.

“An embarrassment,”’ He stated firmly while Ceyrabeth nodded grim affirmation, “and an embodiment of everything wrong in our order.”

“In these letters,” Sul continued, “Ser Otto outlies his plan for ‘The Tranquil Solution’ in which he proposes that every mage in every circle in Thedas be made Tranquil.  From Grand Enchanters, to children barely old enough to walk.”

Silence descended upon the crowd like a pall, each and every one too horrified to speak.

“He asserts that ‘Tranquility is neither morally wrong nor sinful in the eyes of the Maker.  That throughout the Chant of Light, submission was the unifying theme: that Andraste’s followers submitted to her will and that Andraste herself submitted to the Maker’s will when she was executed by the Tevinter Imperium.’  He goes on to say here that,  ‘Submission, obedience, and the desire to follow is intrinsic to faith, to sanctity, and to the very nature of mankind and that in forcing the Rite of Tranquility upon every mage or mage-potential, The Orlesian Chantry would be acting only as Andraste would, to ensure peace and order throughout the realm’.”

“Ceyrabeth…that’s true?” Matthias posed the question, quietly, painfully. She nodded, her demeanor icy, then gestured for him to wait. Sul carefully handed the papers back to Atiya,

“Thank you, Atiya,” He turned back to the crowd, “Now it is worth mentioning that Knight-Commander Meredith rejected the plan as did the current Divine: Beatrix the Third- privately, of course. But it is also worth noting that upon that rejection, Otto Alrik was promoted by Knight-Commander Meredith to the rank of Knight-Lieutenant for his ‘dedication to the ideals of the chantry and unfailing loyalty.’  A promotion that increased the number of mages under his purview tenfold. A promotion that Divine Beatrix censured nor revoked.”

Ceyrabeth almost laughed; Otto Alrik had been promoted to her job, point of fact, the rank bastard.

“Those bastards!” A voice screamed out from within the crowd.  Others quickly joined and the crowd rapidly approached a mob that looked ready to storm Val Royeaux and burn it to the ground.

“Is he trying to start a riot?” Ser Tregan hissed.

Sul held up a hand and the crowd quieted, “Well I am afraid that I must disagree with Ser Alrik’s views, and with Knight-Commander Meredith and Divine Beatrix the Third who apparently shares those views, however tacitly and instead say that the nature of faith, of sanctity, and of mankind is not in fact submission but instead something far more dangerous: liberty.”

Sul cast a look around the crowd, “I say that liberty and, more than liberty… _freedom_ … is the nature of what it is means to be faithful, to be sacred, to be alive.  Liberty, not blind submission.  And as proof, I offer the actions of those who have been deprived their freedom, deprived of their Maker-given liberty,” He shook his fist as he spoke, “They will rise against their captors, they will make war against their oppressors, they will fight and bleed and die, rather than surrender,” He paused for effect, “They will even follow….a woman, an escaped slave with nothing more than a name and claims that the Maker has spoken to her against the mightiest empire the world had ever known before making the ultimate sacrifice in act of devotion and humility.”

Ceyrabeth sneered and let him have his moment, as cheers and accolades rolled in from all sides. She let him stand there and soak it in, while the rage turned hard as diamond in her gut and twice as sharp. She bent down to pick up the stones at her feet and as the crowd quieted, she deliberately dropped them again one by one. _Blasphemy…heresy….treason_.

“You. Know. Nothing.” Ser Ceyrabeth hissed, her voice quiet. She was not speaking for the masses, had almost forgotten they were there.  She spoke straight to Sul. “Nothing of me, nothing of them,” She swept her arm out to indicate her Brothers, “And certainly nothing of the Maker. I find it funny, that for all your talk about liberty and supposed disdain for brutality, how you had absolutely no trouble viciously robbing me of a choice I made because it didn’t conform to your ideal. My story was not yours to tell and yet, here you are telling it. Will I be fitted for my leash and collar after my hair is shorn, Captain? Will it be struck off when I embrace your ‘freedom and liberty’?”

“Your story,” Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, “You’re from Kirkwall, correct?”  Ceyrabeth’s eyes narrowed hatefully but said nothing, “Is that your story? You’re an elf from Kirkwall? Is that the summation of Ceyrabeth? No, you’re a young girl who grew up in an alienage who sacrificed everything she was to be included in an order whose saw fit to defy their own prophet and launched a crusade to conquer their lands and grind her ancestors beneath their collective boot. How did that make you feel, Ceyrabeth? Knowing what they did to your people and swearing your allegiance to them.  How did your family feel when you told them?”

A spasm of pain shot across Ceyrabeth’s features before she could suppress it.

“I see,” Sul said softly, “Your family was taken from you.  Who slew them?  Bandits?  Nobles seeking a bit of sport?” He frowned and shook his head, “No….” He pondered aloud, “A young girl does not cut off her own ears simply for acceptance nor security….but for revenge.”

“No!” Ceyrabeth couldn’t stop herself from crying out.

“An abomination,” Sul said softly, “Your family, your community, ravaged by an abomination.”

Again, Ceyrabeth was struck with a strange sense of familiarity.  The way he spoke, almost to himself, working a puzzle out in his mind while his subject stood dumb, unable to stop the forward motion that would leave their secrets bare.  The words, the cadence of foreign lands becoming more prominent as they continued, she had heard them…

Before.

“I remember you,” Ceyrabeth stated slowly. “I remember you having eyes, and darker hair, but the man is the same. She hated your guts. She would come back and it would take me hours to distract her from how much she loathed this upstart, insubordinate, mage-loving Sergeant Drachaen.” She stopped for a moment, her expression softening into true sympathy. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what happened to your friend Otto.”

"So am I" Sul replied in a tone that did not belong in the throat of a living man. “Her. There is only one Templar that has the conviction, and the hatred of all things blood magic, to lead her company to the aid of elves in Kirkwall. Meredith Stannard. You were the squire of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.” Sul’s voice steadied itself as the information started to connect. “I recall you as well, Ser Ceyrabeth. Rumors of a young girl in the Knight-Commander’s company, a striking young girl with red hair. Those rumors hinted that the nature of that relationship had become intimate.”

“You were sleeping with the commander?!” Keiran exclaimed agog.

“No!” Ceyrabeth protested, “I mean, she wasn’t Commander when we—.”

“It would appear those rumors were true,” Sul nodded thoughtfully. “There was also a very public falling out.” Sul tossed her necklace back to her, “Catch.”

He tossed the necklace high and above the elf’s right shoulder. Her hand automatically shot up to catch it but then drew short and gasped as an old pain lanced through her arm.  The stone fell to the ground.

“You’re right handed,” Sul spoke calmly, “But you draw your weapon with your left, your shield on the right,” Sul rubbed a finger across his upper lip in contemplation, “How old were you when you first broke your arm?  Old enough for it to heal poorly, young enough to be taught how to use your other arm.”

“Stop!” Ceyrabeth implored, “Please, just stop!”

“Did the abominations that slaughtered your kinsmen do that to your arm?”

“I was lucky it was just a broken arm,” Ceyrabeth spat. “After what they did to my mother and siblings…my father…” Her voice cracked, but she plowed on.  “My hiding place was good, but I was scared…gave myself away. They tried to drag me out, but I held on. The apostate leader, he brought his damned staff down on my arm. I fought the rest of the night with it cracked. After Meredith and Quinlan came and took care of the bastards, they decided to take me with them. We reached headquarters, the healer tried to fix it, but it never really set right--”

“You have something to add, Ser Quinlan?” Sul interrupted. He had somehow caught the man’s expression of discomfort.

 _For a blind man_ , Ceyrabeth thought wryly, _he sees a lot._

“We didn’t decide anything,” Ser Quinlan informed them.

“Quinlan!” Ceyrabeth tried to intercept him, but it was too late. Sul motioned for him to continue.

“The Commander…she was a knight-lieutenant then…and I responded to the rumor of mad mages loose in the Spinner’s End of the city.” Quinlan stood at parade rest as though reporting to a superior officer, Ceyrabeth noted through the embarrassment creeping through her. He was about to tell her damn life’s story to this man and his whole army, so why wasn’t she stopping him? “When we got there…they had already turned into abominations.” The older man’s jaw clenched involuntarily, mirroring the fury on Ceyrabeth’s face. “Utter carnage. I’ve never seen anything like it. There was one person left standing though, fighting like a fiend with an old kitchen knife,” She shut her eyes, face flushing as Quinlan continued, vomiting words as though he had held them in too long and couldn’t keep them in a second longer. “She couldn’t have been more than ten…”

“Eleven,” Ceyrabeth murmured.

“But it took four Apostates to hold her.  Not for long…Meredith saw and cut them down. And when the dust had settled, this little girl asks us, ‘What are you?’ Not who, what. So we told her, we’re Templars. She said, ‘I want to be a Templar’. I told her, kindly, only humans are Templars. I joked with her, told her…that ‘her ears would give her away’--”

“Quinlan, stop!” Ceyrabeth begged. He met her eyes, and did stop.

“I see.” Sul replied. “I’m sure Commander Meredith used knowledge of your old injury…your pardon, _injuries_ …to full advantage when she ultimately betrayed you, yes?”

“Yes,” Ceyrabeth dropped her gaze; she was done talking.

Sul gestured to Pellinore. “Lieutenant step forward please, if you would.”   The elf frowned but complied as Sul placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This man is escapee from the tower in Starkhaven after conditions became intolerable.  He attempted to liberate his fellow mages only to be cut down by the Templars and members of the Starkhaven nobility. He is the only survivor, having made it all the way to Ferelden with an arrow lodged in his leg.   He is an elf and a free mage, we can all see that.  But can we see that which is equally true; that he is, in fact, the bravest person assembled here? If he were human and Andrastian and his captors maleficarum or elves, he wouldn’t be standing here now dubbed an ‘apostate and an ‘insurgent’.  He would not in fact be able to stand at all, he would be so heavily laden with accolades and honors from the Orlesian Chantry.  They’d write songs about him and sing them as hymns in the Orlesian Chantry.  The most esteemed scribes of our age would fill their books with his tale to be told to our children and our children’s children and so on down the ages because we would insist upon it.   His name would be as familiar as King Maric, Emperor Drakon, or Justinia the First.”

Sul approached the roaring green bonfire his eyeless gaze fixed on Ceyrabeth, “Yet, if the Orlesian Chantry is right, if Otto Alrik and Divine Beatrix and Knight-Commander Meredith are right,” He gestured at the elvish woman, “If indeed, Ser Ceyrabeth is right. What are we to do with that most famous of rebels: Andraste?”

He held up the amulet for all to see, Andraste’s kindly expression glowing a faint green in the light of the alchemical fire, “What of her conceits in defying an empire?  Her malcontent in giving Shartan and his elves a homeland?  ‘Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.’   What in Heaven’s name shall we do this embarrassing truth?” He examined the amulet carefully, running his fingers of Andraste’s serene visage, “I see only one solution.”

He tossed the amulet into the fire where it burst into flame and was consumed.  The only sound that could be heard was the crackle of ivory and leather burning and from somewhere the soft sound of weeping.

He continued speaking to the crowd, “The other night, I was speaking to my friend, Reaper Maul, and we were discussing dwarven traditions he learned from during his time in their Proving Grounds. He explained to me that the Dwarves practice a form of ancestor worship.  They believe that the most exemplary of their people both living and dead which they call ‘Paragons’ watch over them.  These Paragons serve as ideals to be aspired to and in doing so they never really leave their people.”

He took another drink and cleared his throat, “It made me curious as to who the ‘Paragons’ of the Andrastian faith were:  Thane Maferath whose frailty ended Andraste’s life, but whose bravery and resolve had also sustained her through her great crusade.  Eailsay, Andraste’s childhood friend who showed us that the Maker’s Bride was first a little girl full of song and joy.  Havard the Aegis, the first of Andraste’s disciples who bore her ashes to the mountains in a final act of devotion and humility.   Too long have we denied their wisdom, their insight, their example.  Perhaps it is fear that the devotion that we cling to so very dearly would be seen as flawed in their eyes. Perhaps in our fervor we fear that those ancient eyes would look upon our actions in their name and be ashamed. “

His expression softened, “But this is not so.  There is a truth that I have aspired to, an ideal and it is simply this: We owe our devotion and our allegiance to the future and not the past.  That which came before, no matter how sacredly it may be held, is not a guide to the future. Clinging to the past will not make us stronger; learning from it will, and when we have learned all we can from it, then it is to be put aside in a place of remembrance and not reverence,” He turned his expression skyward, “I call upon those ancient spirits to hear us.  We desperately need your gentle wisdom and your counsel.  Help us overcome our fears, our frailties, ourselves, so that we may finally grow as a people and learn to embrace the future and not the past.   And if in doing so we anger the Orlesian chantry or the nobility or the Templars and war ensues, then let it come.  And may it be finally the last crusade of Andraste.”

Silence reigned in the camp as Sul turned away from the crowd and Atiya slowly lead him back to the tent.  Long after those gathered had dispersed, only Ceyrabeth remained standing ramrod straight and staring at the last of the green fire as it sputtered and went out and all became serene and dark once more.


	6. Changes

The next morning dawned cold and shadowed as Pellinore led Beth across the camp to a small, open air stall. She could hear the singing before they even got near, the voice of a very young man- clear and sweet and trumpeting an extremely bawdy Orlesian drinking song. A short, fat figure was hopping from one foot to the other in time to the music around a chair that appeared to be on wheels. “Don’t worry. Bayard’s harmless even if he is a little…strange.” He felt compelled to reassure her.

“You don’t have to warn me of ‘strange’ in this place, Lieutenant Pellinore.”

“You’ve not seen us at our best,” Pellinore caught himself and thought for a moment “Although, maybe the Captain would say that because you’ve seen our uniqueness, you have seen our best.”

“Yes,” Ceyrabeth replied frostily, “His calling dark magic to reshape my ears against my will felt very unique indeed.”

It was good that it was a short walk to Bayard’s stall because it was a very silent one after that. Pellinore hailed Bayard, who immediately stopped and theatrically whirled around. The little man, with many elaborate bows, gushed his joy to see Lieutenant Pellinore again and to finally meet the young lady that caused such a stir about camp, “Why, it is almost as good as being back at court!” He assured her with a wide grin.

Almost without knowing how it happened, Beth found herself seated in the wheeled chair and Bayard was examining her hair with exclamations of delight. “Such shine! Such heft! Why, half this glorious mass alone would bring a king’s ransom in the Summer Market of Val Royeaux!”

“You sell…hair…in Val Royeaux?” Ceyrabeth asked with mild disgust.

“But of course, Madame! You do not think we magic our beautiful wigs from nothing, do you?”

“Well, it has to go. Captain’s orders. It’s up to Ser Ceyrabeth what’s done with it after that,” The lieutenant informed him.

“It’s all yours.” she waved the consideration away. Bayard’s face lit like a lamp.

“You are a paragon and a saint, _mamselle_ , to warm a man’s heart as you do with your golden words and generosity. But, ah! I have thought of a small thing,” The man’s fingers rapidly braided a thin strand about the width of Beth’s finger. He tied it off at the end then snip! And he handed the length to Beth. “A souvenir. Now….here we go!” With a slice of the Orlesian’s shears, a waterfall of ruddy gold fell to the floor. It didn’t take long before Beth was completely shorn, the back of her head a mass of artful spikes and the front just brushing her jaw. “Voila! You are a work of art in any civilized capitol in Thedas, _mamselle_.”

Beth glanced in the mirror he held out to her to be polite, but stopped cold when she saw the face looking back at her.  The face of an elf.  A face she had never seen before. She touched trembling fingers to her reflection and thought how utterly strange it was that she would not recognize herself.

_Oh Maker, save me._

She had to focus on something else and as she saw Pellinore seated at the small table behind her busily scribbling away, an idea formed in her head. “May I?”

Pellinore glanced at her, surprised to hear her voice was calm, even pleasant. “By all means.” He handed her a featherless quill and piece of parchment with some ink. 

Ceyrabeth scribbled a brief note on the parchment and folded it.  “Could you make sure Captain Sul gets this? I’d do it myself, but frankly if I never saw him again it would be too soon.”

“Yes yes, you go Lieutenant and I will escort the young lady safely home.” Bayard stepped between them with another flourishing bow and offered his arm to Ceyrabeth. She took it, though the difference in their heights almost made her have to bend to do so, and the last Pellinore saw of them they were heading toward the Templars’ tents with Bayard talking a mile a minute. He turned away toward where he knew the Captain was housed and though he was loathe to disturb him, he knew he would want to know that his orders had been followed without incident.

Atiya answered his gentle knock on the outside post of the tent, thanked him for the information and took the note from him. She ducked back inside and relayed the information to Sul. “Pellinore says she took it with good grace. Bayard was unmolested in any way.”

“Unsurprising. She is of a disciplined nature,” Sul replied non-committedly, “Mostly.”

“Yes, and right now she has turned that disciplined nature against you.”

“Ser Ceyrabeth will be tended to in time, but your concern is noted Atiya and appreciated.” He indicated the note. “That is mine, I imagine.”

“Yes. I can dispose of it if you’d prefer.” Atiya offered.

“Your vigilance is commendable….” Sul’s tone was light and only slightly sardonic, “…but unnecessary in this instance. I have never shied away from unpleasant words.” In reply, she handed the packet to him. It took just a fold or two to open; a long braid glimmered red-gold in the candlelight as it coiled around two simple words:

 _Trials 1:1_.

He permitted himself a mirthless chuckle, “Still quoting scripture,” He folded the letter up, “Still, a clever choice.”

Atiya picked up the paper and examined the slanting writing. “’Trials 1:1?”

“I believe the line that is meant to be significant in this case is ‘I will not fear the Legion, though they set themselves against me.”

“Ah.” Atiya nodded understanding. “It seems Ser Ceyrabeth likes to have the last word.”

“She is welcome to it,” He replied tossing the letter into the brazier, “The last word and the final word are not always one-in-the-same.”

“As you say, sir.”

.:*:.

Ser Corellan was a good man, Ceyrabeth mused…well, actually, he was too suave for his own good and too pretty to know it, not to mention thick as bronto hide when it came to cues of subtlety. But he was mostly good-natured and relatively kind, even to mages...but Arryn didn’t know that. She watched as her fellow Templar sat beside the boy, telling him some overblown story about a dragon he once fought (if one word in ten were true, she would eat her helm), completely oblivious to the fact that Arryn was shrinking from him as though he had the Taint. Young Ser Keiran with his gentle, cheerful demeanor the boy could handle- Ser Corellan was a loud, distracting unknown.

She was accustomed to watching for signs of magic use, so she noticed when Arryn’s hair started to stand up with excess static. She decided an intervention was a good idea for all involved. “Alright, Ser Dragon Slayer,” She said, sauntering casually toward them. “Quit filling the poor boy’s head with lies and go look to your armor. I saw a rust spot earlier.”

Corellan jolted to his feet with a strangled noise in his throat before beelining to the tent they were using as a temporary armory. Ceyrabeth smiled at Arryn as the cry of “Argh! Maker damned bogs…!” reached their ears.

She shook her head wryly, “What a peacock…” Arryn finally cracked a smile, and the smell of ozone dissipated. “You don’t have to be scared of him. In fact, I can show you how you don’t have to be scared of anyone ever again.”

“Really?” Arryn’s blue eyes lit like veilfire, his voice almost crackling with eagerness.

“Sure.” She drew her sword from her scabbard and offered it to him hilt first. “First though, why don’t you go take a few swings at that practice dummy?”

Arryn dubiously accepted the blade. He hesitated for a moment before he lit into the dummy like a berserker, hacking and slashing with reckless abandon, clutching the sword with both hands. He was missing more often than not, but it was when Beth realized that he was swinging with his eyes closed that she intervened, “Woah there, tiger.” She said. Her dark eyes were dancing as she gently caught his wrist. “You’ve got the wrong sword for two-handed fighting. Besides, fighting like that slows you down and we have to play to your strengths. I’ll bet you’re really fast.”

Arryn scuffed his toe in the dirt. “Not that fast…”

“Oh yeah? I saw you almost dodge those guards the first day we came in. You came awfully close to getting past them. Besides, there’s not much to warriors like us…” She poked him lightly in the belly, then again in the side until he was squirming and fighting giggles. “…so we’re harder to hit. Not like that big ol’ rock-hands Reaper Maul or Ser Mathias the Sunken.”

Both men were nearby, as Ceyrabeth well knew, and good natured- if somewhat explicit from Maul’s side- protests reached her ears from both injured parties. She cheerfully ignored them. “Fighting for us is like dancing. You’ve been dancing before, right?”

Arryn nodded hesitantly. Ceyrabeth raised her blade and bowed to him before beginning to hum a popular Fereldan tune. She went through a simple, fluid series of basic sword exercises, all the while timing her thrusts and parries to the flow of the music. “Like that.” She handed the sword back and seeing he was still hesitant, she stepped behind him. She wrapped her right hand around his as it gripped the hilt, tapped his feet into position with her own.  With a one-two-three they were off, Ceyrabeth leading him into steps that wouldn’t seem out of place in the Palace ballroom- except for the short but deadly blade in their hands.

Arryn quickly relaxed when he started listening to the music and started to get a feel for the way Ceyrabeth was moving. Toward the end, she released him and with a quick forward thrust that would be the envy of any swordsman, Arryn skewered the practice dummy straight through the throat. “I did it!” He exclaimed, delighted.

“That you did.” Ceyrabeth smiled at him. “With some serious practice, no one will be able to touch you without your permission again.”

Arryn didn’t have the words to thank her, but it was alright. She let him process his newfound strength and teasingly bumped shoulders with Ser Keiran, who had been watching. Ceyrabeth had taught him in much the same way at first, when he was fresh off the farm and so green he smelled of summer.

 “He’d have done better if your blade wasn’t so heavy.” He said with a good-natured grin.

“He’ll gain his muscle.”

“Still…”Keiran replied. “He should have his own blade.”

“If it was in my power, I’d get him one. But I’m fairly certain that my request for more weaponry wouldn’t be well received.”

 

Hours later, with darkness just starting to fall, Ceyrabeth entered her tent. She had just pulled a brush through her short hair when she saw something glimmer on her bedroll. It was the silverite hilt of a blade. She carefully drew the blade from the serviceable leather sheath, remembering Ser Toliver who had pulled his blade too quickly and gotten a face full of rashvine powder, but she needn’t have worried.

The blade was clean, sharp, and just the right length and balance for a boy who hadn’t quite come into his full strength yet. _Dar’misu_ …the name came unbidden to Ceyrabeth’s memory. She wound the thin green ribbon attached to the hilt around her finger. “So you were listening…”  She whispered into the dusk with a smile. “Good to know. Good form, Captain.” She sheathed the weapon, placed it under the edge of her bedroll, and blew out her candle.

.:*:.

Sul had just finished pouring the wine when Atiya entered his tent, ducking her massive horned frame to clear the entryway.

“’Aggregio Pavali’,” Sul explained cordially, “A friend of mine in Tevinter introduced me to it.”

“I wasn’t aware a man in your position could afford the luxury of friends,” The Qunari replied flatly.

“We are not friends?”

“No, we are not and we never will be.  Your actions made that impossible.”

Sul took a sip from the goblet and nodded slowly, “Yes I suppose they did.”

“It’s time to clean your wounds,” She informed him shifting the conversation to a less loaded topic.

Sul exhaled, “Past time, I imagine.”  He sat in his chair.  “Shall we begin?” He asked handing her a small leather bundle.

Silently, Atiya knelt before the man and took the bundle from him.  She unfurled it to reveal a bevy of gleaming metal instruments and tools.  All manner of hooks, blades, and clamps gleamed dully in the soft light of the tent’s vast interior, “I will require more light.”

Sul gestured to a small brazier filled with seething coals that glowed sullenly in the dark.  Atiya moved to it and, gripping it in her large hands, heaved it up and deposited it next to Sul with an audible _thump_! “The solvent?”

“The locked cabinet.”

Atiya moved to the large wooden cabinet made of wood so dark it was nearly black and engraved with a pair of dragons sinuously entwined.  Their tails formed the large dark handles of the enormous piece of furniture and she lightly fingered the strange lock mounted into its twin setting: a series of concentric three disks engraved with symbols with a series of small holes.

“Your locks are becoming more elaborate,” She commented placidly.

“The creeping onset of paranoia as my elder years descend upon me no doubt.”

Atiya shrugged and turned her attention back to the combination lock. She regarded the different symbols for a moment then arranged the different symbols meticulously before placing her fingertips into the holes and twisting hard.  The lock snapped open, a variety of bolts retracting back into main body of the lock and the doors swung open silently.

Inside was a dazzling array of vials and bottles of every shape and size imaginable from all corners of the world in a rainbow of different colors, each filled with some strange liquid or powder. Mounted on the inside of the doors themselves were large racks that held every kind of tool and instrument one could conceive of.

“You remain clever,” She commented tonelessly as she reached into the cabinet and removed several vials.

“We all have our gifts.”

Atiya turned to face him, “Though not all of us keep them.”

Once again, a pained but sympathetic expression crossed the older man’s face, “Point taken.”

Atiya closed the massive wooden doors gently.  Instantly the bolts snapped back into place and the lock was once again secure.   She stood before the brazier, selected one of the vials and poured some into the smoldering coals. There was a flash of bright, blue light and a small jet of azure fire burst into existence before dying down almost immediately. The now-blue coals gave off considerably more light bathing the interior of the tent with a strange ambiance that bordered on the unreal.

“The tools must be properly cleansed,” Atiya carefully slid each tool from its leather loop or snare and gently placed one end it into the blue coals.  Almost instantly, the metal began to smoke and a strange smell like ozone filled the air. She grabbed several bowls and buckets and placed them near Sul’s feet. She then knelt before the older man seated in the chair and carefully prodded the soiled samite around his eyes: blood had soaked completely through the bandages forming a visage as black as pitch, “I will have to cut these off.”

Sul nodded and waited patiently as Atiya reached into the brazier and removed a pair of scissors, its twin blades now glowing faintly. Carefully, she snipped at the soiled wrappings.  Every time the blades came into contact with his face, there was the faint hiss of flesh searing.  Soon the scent of rotting meat filled the tent’s confines.  With a final cut, the bandages fell limp, held to Sul’s face only by the encrusted blood.

“This will hurt,” Atiya stated flatly.

“Yes.”

The Qunari woman took a hold of one edge of the dangling material and began to peel it from Sul’s face.  Bits of flesh soon detached as the caked on blood formed a grisly adhesive.   Soon red blood flowed followed by streams of black ichor as wet lumps of skin and fat fell into the network of bowls and buckets that had been set up, splattering like wax. Sul’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair but remained still as strip after strip of tissue was peeled from his face in long gory lengths.

The last bandage was removed and tossed into the brazier, the collected blood and oils of Sul’s skin bubbling and hissing angrily.  Atiya dragged the fire closer to see more clearly and her eyes widened.

“For someone in your condition to look so, it must be grave indeed,” Sul said quietly.

“Yes,” Atiya murmured softly and took out fresh bandages to staunch some of the blood as she examined the damage.  The flesh around his eyes and the immediate area was black and sickly with a pulpy appearance like rotten fruit.  Necrotic tissue had swollen to form bloated cysts filled with black ichor.    Veins pulsed and throbbed over the glistening skin and deep furrows of exposed muscle tissue, riddled with cancerous growths shuddered and trembled with each of Sul’s inhalations.  As Atiya peered closer at a particularly large mass just above Sul’s left eye, it abruptly burst and black and yellow pus flowed down his face, thick and noxious which she quickly wiped away.

“The infection has spread,” Atiya announced after regaining her composure, “The tainted tissue will have be amputated and scoured clean,” Atiya gently took the man’s ravaged face, “You must control your emotions: your anger and pain only feeds the Taint.”

“Noted,” Sul replied with eerie stillness, “Proceed.”

Atiya removed a small length of leather and inserted it into Sul’s mouth. He bit down and nodded his readiness.  She removed a large scalpel from the flaming sconce and placed the tip of the blade just above the bridge of his nose. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the blade into his face. His teeth ground against the bit in his mouth and the wood of the chair creaked as he squeezed the armrests.  Atiya sawed her way a millimeter at a time until she reached between his eyes.  Flesh sizzled and popped as blood and ichor streamed from the incision as she cut around down the edge of one eye and then the other and then up towards his hairline, forming an inverted “y”.  Taking a small fishhook, she pierced the flesh in several places and slowly peeled it back, pinning it in place and laying the tissue underneath bare.  Retrieving several small clamps, she meticulously pinned several more pieces of corrupted flesh in place.

“Do you believe Elthina will cooperate?”  Atiya asked and took the bit from his mouth.

Sul smiled without humor at her attempts to distract him, Unless she wishes her pet pupil’s role in the massacre at the Starkhaven Tower known to all, she will submit,” His smile turned scornful, “It’s what people like her do best, after all.”

“Will anyone actually believe that a high-ranking member of the Chantry would adopt a unilateral position of non-involvement in a time of great unrest?”

“I think you overestimate the Orlesian Chantry’s sense of civil obligation.  But to answer your question, Elthina will continue to do what we tell her to do. She ensured that Meredith was made knight-commander and she will ensure that she remains so to fuel the flames of discord. At Elthina’s core, she is fearful: afraid of what people will think of her actions and how those actions reflect on her and the Orlesian Chantry.  Her carefully maintained visage of piety conceals a paralyzing fear embedded into the core of her being.  I believe we can count on her to do exactly nothing exactly when we need her to do it.”

“And First Enchanter Orsino?”

Sul’s face grimaced, either from pain as Atiya continued to impale flaps of his skin on hooks and pin them to his face or the onset of a sudden and violently intense loathing for the First Enchanter, “A weakling and a hypocrite. Just enough indignation to rile Meredith without enough conviction to actually challenge her.   If he were half the champion of the oppressed he purports to be, he’d have galvanized the citizenry against the Templars ages ago, especially given how utterly ineffectual Dumar is,” He scoffed and almost shook his head before Atiya tightened her grip on it, stopping the motion before it had even started, “Dumar and Elthina are the perfect people to reign over Kirkwall; completely obsessed with the opinions of others, desperate to curry favor with anyone who will support them and terrified of losing  whatever perceived prestige and power they believe they possess.”

“And the First Enchanter’s relationship with the Necromancer?”

Sul gave a careful shrug so as not to disturb Atiya as she clamped down another piece of skin and began to peel it back from the musculature, “Proof of Orsino’s hypocrisy. The fact that he condones the madman just illustrates the fact that the elf lacks the courage of his convictions. Knowledge of his relationship with Quentin if brought to the Circle of Magi would be more than enough to ensure that he is stripped of his rank and put to the Brand.”

“And yet…?”

“Quentin’s depredations are more fuel to the fire that we have so carefully worked to nurture within Kirkwall,” Sul explained, “Murderers rampaging through the streets at night cause the kind of fear and turmoil that will be necessary to ensure that our plans come to fruition in the Free Marches. As much as it would please me to see that miserable excuse for a mage reduced to a drooling moron, Orsino’s weakness and cowardice continue to serve our goals.”

“Innocent people are dying,” Atiya replied.

“Innocent people will always die,” Sul retorted, “And a great deal more are going to die before this is all over,” He shifted his weight, “Blood is the currency of change, Atiya, and the change we seek to manifest has a high price indeed,” He gestured to his partially flayed face: pale skin stripped away to reveal darkened muscle tissue, “As you can see.”

Atiya shrugged fractionally and removed a large, curved blade from the flames and forced the edge under the swollen masses that had taken root in Sul’s face.  With a sharp twist of her wrist, the blade sprang open causing four metal spikes to burst forth.  He screamed as Atiya wrenched the spikes as deep into the gory wound as possible and then pulled with all her might. The growth and the surrounding tissue was torn nearly completely free of his skull, dangling by only a thin thread of pitted skin which she severed with the scissors. She peered into the wound: blood bright and red gushed from it.  She nodded her satisfaction and removed a brand from the brazier.  Standing, she held him down with one hand and pressed the glowing brand into the open wound.  His entire body shook as the pain robbed him of his ability to scream. After an agonizing several moments, Atiya removed the brand and examined her work and Sul nearly collapsed out of the chair, rendered completely limp from the pain. A monstrous scar had agony formed, angry and red, but clean.  She reset the spiked tool, set it into the fire for a moment and regarded him with a critical eye, “Shall we continue?”

Sul raised his head and nodded.  Atiya removed the tool from the brazier and examined the next growth.

An hour later, the last of the diseased tissue had been removed.  Sul was breathing shallowly, the upper portion of his face a mass of bright red scars and inflamed flesh with smoke trailing away from it in thin foul-smelling wisps.  Carefully, Atiya made a small incision into each puckered scar and nodded in satisfaction as each bled bright red.  She critically examined the small shards of glass that formed the latticework replacing the man’s eyes, “The shards will also have to be removed and cleansed.”

Sul simply nodded as Atiya removed a pair of small round speculums and affixed them into Sul’s eye socket. She adjusted the instrument and examined the shards, “It is fortunate you do not possess eyelids, which makes this easier.  Unfortunately, the muscles that would control your eyeball still react normally to external stimulation so the restraints are necessary.”

“I do not require an explanation, _kadan_ , merely your accommodation.   Please proceed.”

Carefully, she removed a long thin spike from the fire, half its length glowing blue and smoking faintly and began examining the shards.

“I assume you remember the correct sequence?” Sul asked mildly.

“Certainly,” Atiya reassured him and then she pressed the tip of the needle just under Sul’s eye socket and angling it up at a 45 degree angle, slid the length of heated metal under the bone and began burrowing upward.  Sul gasped at the agony and heat.  The needle met resistance briefly as it came into contact with bone.  Atiya twisted the spike and applied more pressure. There was the soft crunch of bone and Sul jerked once before the instrument finished its trip through the man’s face, its tip now lodged behind his eye.

“How does it feel?” Atiya asked.

“It’s excruciating,” He informed her in a calm but strained voice, “Which means it is firmly lodged in the bone and not the brain itself.  It will prevent any shards from tumbling backwards into my skull.  You may proceed with extraction.”

“Yes, sir,” Removing a small chisel and mallet from the blue flame, she gently tapped experimentally against each shard of iridescent glass in Sul’s eye socket.  She felt one small piece near the center of where Sul’s pupil would be had he possessed eyes shift slightly causing her to nod once. Inserting the very corner of the chisel adjacent to the shard, she tapped it lightly with the mallet: once, twice, thrice and the shard fell free from its mounting.

“Tilt your head forward,” She instructed as she removed a small bowl made of obsidian that possessed several small grooves along the smooth, concave surface of its interior.  There was a faint sound as a piece of glass, no bigger than a thumbnail fell from Sul’s face and landed in the bowl. It trailed a thick strand of viscous black ichor behind it, “Keep your head forward and let it drain.”

Sul gave a slight nod of his head to indicate he heard the instruction as Atiya brought the obsidian bowl to the brazier.   Carefully removing a pair of tongs, she collected a single coal from the burning fire and placed it within the bowl.  There was an angry _hiss_ as drops of tainted blood boiled away.  When it was over, she took a small pair of tweezers and with exacting care, arranged the shard into a small groove perfectly shaped to accommodate it.

“One down,” Sul murmured softly, “Twenty-nine to go.”

After several hours, the deed was done.  Atiya dabbed at an errant drop of black ichor near the corner of Sul’s eye socket and dropped the rag into one of the buckets on the floor, now filled to the brim with a noxious tarlike substance: the extract that had been drained from Sul’s face and eyes.

Sul’s empty eye sockets looked cavernous in the blue light of the brazier. Atiya carefully maneuvered the last tiny shard into its allocated groove in the bowl. Every piece was accounted for.

“Now to purify,” Atiya commented tonelessly.  Sul managed a wry smile.

“I’m familiar with the process thank you.”

Atiya gently placed the bowl into the roaring azure flames.  Soon the bowl began to take on an eerie glow and the scent of ozone intensified.

There was a sharp rapping sound just outside the tent.

“Enter,” Sul instructed calmly.

“My apologies Captain,” Ceyrabeth began crisply as she ducked into the tent, “Lieutenant Pellinore said…” Sul turned his eyeless face towards the elf and the woman froze in her tracks, “Blessed Andraste…!” She managed to choke out.

“You were saying?” Sul asked mildly unable to keep a bemused expression from his lined face.

“I…..I… “

“You….?”

“What….has happened?”

“A long and difficult story for another time,” Sul answered before gesturing to chair, “Please, sit lieutenant.  Mind the buckets, they contain a substance that would best be avoided by the living.”

Ceyrabeth could not repress a frown as she peered into Sul’s empty eye sockets, “But you seemed as though you could see…”

“Not as you understand sight. I can sense you: I can hear the fabric of your cloth and feel the air shift and change as you move through the space of a tent.”

“Yes, sir.” Ceyrabeth pursed her lips. In her attempt to regain control of herself, her voice turned formal. “Thank you for explaining. You have orders for me?”

“The Horde is on the move,” He said softly, “Lothering will be destroyed. Begin the evacuation.  When the spawn tire of slaughtering villagers, I don’t want them turning their attentions to us.”

Lieutenant Vallorin saluted smartly, wincing only a little at the sight of Sul’s empty eye sockets, “Yes sir! Lieutenant Pellinore also wished me to inform you that there’s a man—“

The elf was shouldered out of the way by a short man in garbed in armor and great helm.

“—here to see you.”

Sul moved his face to focus his attention on the new man, “It’s all right Lieutenant. I’ve been expecting him.  You’re dismissed.”

The lieutenant sent the short human a withering look. She then stiffly bowed and departed.

“What happened to your eyes?” The short man asked.

“I misplaced them,” Sul replied, “Bazeley.”

“In the flesh.”

“We are far from Amaranthine.”

“Yeah?  Last I heard you’d shacked up with the ox-men.  Hadn’t heard the Legion had returned.”

“You weren’t meant to.  It was not your business.”

“Information is my business.”

“Perhaps you should consider a change in profession.”

Bazeley smiled bitterly and cast a look about the tent, “Nice place you have here.”

“Are you here for a reason Bazeley?”

Bazeley clicked his tongue in thought then nodded, “Yeah, well, you mentioned a change in profession?”

“You’ve not the discipline for an assassin of any merit or the fortitude to be a mercenary. You lack both the connections to deal with lyrium or slaves, and you lack the knowledge to be an effective purveyor of the occult. You’ve become a bounty hunter,” The eyeless man stated matter-of-factly.

“For a bloke with no eyes, you see too damn much,” Bazeley commented sourly.

“We all have our burdens to bear,” Bazeley reached for the bottle of wine on the table, “Do not touch that!” The man froze as Sul’s tone cracked like a whip, “It’s for a guest that will be joining me later.”

The bounty hunter gave the eyeless man a shaky smile. “Right. Sorry then.”

Sul gestured, “Atiya, please bring our guest something to drink,” The Qunari woman bowed once and headed out.  Bazeley gestured at the departing woman with a dirty thumbnail.

“Still got that pet—?“

“You do not want to finish that sentence.”

Bazeley shrugged as Atiya returned with a single goblet of mead placing it before the man and departing without a word.

“The last time I saw you,” Sul commented softly, “You were fending off Ser Tammerly and six of his bannermen on the Pilgrim’s Path.”

“Yeah, nice of you to help out.”

“We were business competitors,” Sul replied coolly, “You gambled that you would beat me. You were wrong.”

“’If you cannot afford to lose--,” Bazeley tiredly recited from memory.

“—you should not play the game’,” The older man finished.

“Someone told me that once when I was a lad.”

“You should have listened.”

“How the in name of Andraste’s flaming arse was I supposed to know that you’d contracted the Howlers ahead of me?”

“Anyone hoping to conduct business on the Pilgrim’s Path should be well appraised as to what the local drake runners are doing.   The Corsairs were taken by fever last winter.  That left the White Howlers as the only bandits still operating in the area.”

“And you, what, paid them to attack my caravan?”

“On the contrary, I paid them to _avoid_ your caravan.”

Bazeley frowned, “I don’t get it.”

“It’s very simple, Bazeley.  Someone had already paid the Howlers to attack your caravan.  When I disrupted that plan, I wanted to see if the person responsible for orchestrating their attacks over the last few months would come personally.”

The other man frowned for a bit then his eyes went wide, “The Ox!”

Sul inclined his head slightly.

“You used me as bait?!”

“You sound surprised.”

“I had nine bolts of the finest silk heading to Mervis!  It cost me a fortune!”

“I had heard rumors that the silk trade was brisk in Amaranthine,” Sul mused, “Most likely due to Celene’s atrocious fashion statement at her fete last Summerfest in Halamshiral. Ferelden nobility for all their declarations of patriotism always seem eager to parrot the fashions of the west, no matter how gauche,” Sul shook his head reprovingly, “Slippers bejeweled with emeralds and pearls indeed.”

Bazeley said nothing, glaring at the eyeless man over the rim of his goblet as he sipped, “Still don’t know why it had to be my goods that you baited the Ox with.”

“Because I had hoped that you and yours would have been up to the task of slaying the wretch.”

The bounty hunter peered into his mead as if attempting to scry the answer from its topaz depths, “We weren’t prepared to fight mounted knights. I was the only one to escape. The rest of my boys were run down.”

“And that is why you lost your goods and why Ser Tammerly eluded the death I had so dearly wished for him.”

“What’d the Ox do to get on your bad side?”

“The man is a pig. He deserves to be someone’s bacon.”

“Ser Tamra would agree with you on that one.”

“Yes,” Sul said softly, his brow furrowing.

“What?”

“Ser Tamra is sly and resourceful, but if she attracts the wrong kind of attention—“

“Like the Ox?” Bazeley interjected.

“Like the Ox,” Sul admitted, “She could place herself in imminent peril.”

“Want me to keep an eye out? I don’t think you have any to spare,” Bazeley grinned.

“Had your business acumen matched your glibness, we would not be discussing this particular matter.”

“….okay, fair point.”

“But no, I have agents in Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep.  I should be able to keep Tamra out of harm’s way and arrange a suitable decoy should those efforts fail.”

“What’s your interest in her anyways?”

Sul shrugged fractionally, “She’s clever and moral. That’s enough to garner my interest, especially when it occurs within the ranks of the Ferelden nobility.  Speaking of which,” Sul commented smoothly, “I understand you’re continuing to make life difficult for Rendon Howe.”

Bazeley spat, “That rat bastard needs a good being killed.”

“Difficult, now that he has the support of Teryn Loghain, the new power behind the throne,” Bazeley’s mouth dropped open and Sul smiled tightly, “You didn’t know?”

“That explains why the little shit’s fortunes have been improved.  Did you hear he’d been made teyrn of Highever?”

“I had. Are you aware of how he became thus?”

“No.”

“He massacred almost every last soul at Castle Cousland…with Loghain’s assistance in the form of at least two companies of his own, handpicked from his own reserves and wearing Howe’s colors.”

Bazeley blinked rapidly for a few moments processing this, “Maker’s balls.”

“Whether or not that actually happened or no is what I wish for you to learn.”

Bazeley narrowed his eyes suspiciously his wariness allowing him to overcome the discomfort of the sight of the two gaping eye sockets staring back at him, “What are you on about?”

“Rendon Howe is a craven but he’s not completely without intelligence. He may have acquired some form of leverage to be used against his current master in the event their relationship sours.”

“And what would that leverage be exactly?”

Sul smiled faintly, “I have a suspicion.”

“So what’s the job?”

Sul stood and walked across the dimly lit tent with a confidence that belied his blindness and took the other man by surprise, “When I was in Minrathous, an acquaintance of mine informed me that there’d been an arrangement made between elements in Tevinter and here in Ferelden.”

“What’s a Vint doing here?”  Bazeley asked, taking a long drink from the wine goblet.

“Negotiating an arrangement with Loghain to reintroduce slavery.”

The other man spewed a mouthful of mead out of his mouth, coughing and choking, “He… _what_?!”

“There’s a magister with a pet slaver who cut a deal with Loghain’s people. “

“How do you know these things?” He asked, aghast.

“I intercepted one of his agents and persuaded her to divulge the information.”

Bazeley shook his head to clear it of visions involving Sul’s methods of ‘persuasion’.

“Calm yourself,” Sul reassured Bazeley, “There was no need to resort to coercion.  Once I supplied her with enough funds to facilitate her departure from the country, she spoke freely.”

“Speaking of funds...”

Sul tossed a small pouch to the other man who caught it in his free hand, “30 gold sovereigns. Find the slaver; an elf named Devera and her magister master.”

“Where do I start looking? Amaranthine?”

“No, information like this would be disastrous for the Teryn if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“I’d say it already has,” He gestured at the eyeless man with his wine goblet.

“I can’t afford to confront Loghain openly.  My resources are plentiful and growing, but not enough to challenge the throne.”

“What about your allies amongst the nobility?”

“Loghain and Howe will need to establish the logistics of funneling slaves from Ferelden back to Tevinter.  It’ll require trial and error.  So they’ll take people no one will miss at first until they’ve established a reliable conduit."

“Meaning….?”

“Elves, Bazeley, they’ll start with elves and move on to more lucrative slaves once they have their route established.”

“That means raiding the alienages.”

Sul nodded thoughtfully, “There was recently an uprising in the Denerim alienage.”

The other man scoffed, “Apparently the elves didn’t appreciate being used as sport for the bored kids of the nobility.”

“Apparently so,” Sul conceded, “It wouldn’t surprise me if additional armed men are discreetly sent to ‘reestablish order and ensure public safety’.”

“Slavers?”

“Almost certainly,” Sul pursed his lips in thought and then beckoned, “Come,” He turned and briskly exited the tent, his stride confident despite his blindness.

 _The blind leading the_ … Bazeley thought about for a moment then shook his head not wanting to dwell on the matter further as he followed the older man out.

“Light,” Sul said softly as he entered the command tent.  Instantly, two guards lit torches and placed them inside the sconces within the confines of the enormous tent.  Sul paid them little heed as he strode to the massive oaken table

Bazeley eyed the enormous fixture appraisingly, “Where’d you get this great thing?”

“Tribute from Xenon the Antiquarian,” Sul murmured quietly as slowly ran his fingers over the contoured surface area of the map, frowning in concentration, “A token of his esteem.”

“Who’s that?”

“Less of a ‘who’ and more of a ‘what’, actually.  He runs the Black Emporium; something of an exclusive curio shop in the Free Marches.  He specializes in rare and exotic antiquities.”

“And he sent you this…?”

“Likely to earn my favor.”

“Did it work?”

“For the moment,” Sul conceded, “He tells me his agents found it in the ruin of an ancient elven fortress up in the Frostback mountains west of here along the border of Orlais. “

“How in the Void did he get a giant table down a bleedin’ mountain?”

“Thaddeus.”

“Who?”

Sul waved him off and tapped a spot on the map, “Here. From Denerim along the North Road…,” He traced his finger along the road, “….to the Port of Highever, newly acquired by Rendon Howe.”

“If Loghain and Howe are in league--.”

“They are.”

“—then whole bit with slaves was a long time in the making. Clever.”

“If you say so,” Sul replied, his brow furrowed in concentration, the expression looking bizarre with the vacant eye sockets.

“Where’s he going to send them?”

Sul sighed and tapped the map thoughtfully, “You can’t sail to Tevinter from Ferelden with a hold full of slaves, not without half of them starving to death.”

“It is a high-risk cargo.  That’s why—“

“They are not cargo Bazeley,” A dark shadow settled across Sul’s face as he straightened and turned his face towards the other man “They are living people, are we clear on that?” His tone was lethally soft.

Bazeley swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as he peered into the cavernous depths of where Sul’s eyes should have been, “Yes, sir.”

Sul held the look a moment longer and then turned his attention elsewhere, “I shall have to think more on it. In the meantime, return to Amaranthine and keep me appraised of Howe’s movements and those of his agents.”

“Hey, I’m not part of your damn legion,” Bazeley protested.

“Thirty gold sovereigns says otherwise,” Bazeley shut his mouth with an audible clack and threw back the last of his mead, scowling, “Besides you should get out of bounty hunter profession.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“Larkin’s alive.”

The goblet hit the floor and rolled away.

…..what….?” Bazeley managed to choke out.

“Larkin is alive.”

“But…..but the dragon….and the volcano….and the firestorm…”

“Was apparently insufficient.”

“Sweet Maker!” Bazeley stammered wiping a shaky hand across his damp brow.

“I think perhaps you should try your hand at becoming an information broker and not becoming business competitors with a creature like Larkin.”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so, yeah.”

“You’ll need a new _nom de guerre_.”

Bazeley looked at the Captain with the expression of a man who’d been stabbed in the gut, “A what?”

“An Orlesian term,” Sul explained patiently, “It means ‘alias’.”

“Oh,” The sweating man looked around the interior of the tent and at the row of banners mounted on the far wall and their heraldic markings, “How about that?”  He asked pointing to one depicting a pair of black wolves against a yellow and green background.

“I would advise against masquerading as a member of the de Chalon family,” Sul stated mildly, “Gaspard is not a man known for his temperance.”

“Well, how about just ‘Black Wolf’?”

Sul pursed his lips and shook his head, “Black Wolf is the name of a male prostitute in Llomerryn.”

“How do you know these things?”

“Information is my weapon,” Sul offered as an explanation, “’Dark Wolf’.”

Bazeley considered and then nodded, “’Dark Wolf’. I like it.”

“Good.  You have your instructions.”

The newly-christened Dark Wolf nodded and moved to the exit.

“Ummm, what should I do if I meet up with Larkin?”

“Swallow your own tongue,” Sul stated unhesitatingly, “Because it will be far kinder than anything that lunatic has in mind if he decides to make you his new plaything.”

Dark Wolf gingerly rubbed his throat and then nodded once before hurrying out. Sul listened to the man’s departing footsteps crunch on the gravel before setting his shoulders back with a faint sigh.  Time to return to Atiya.


	7. Nightmares In Waking

Ceyrabeth turned and stretched, feeling a curious lack of tension in her muscles. The wind blew soft and warm against her bare skin, scented with salt from the sea and rosemary from the Tranquil’s kitchen garden. “Beth,” Ceyrabeth turned toward the husky voice with a smile. Meredith stood by the open window, blonde hair tossed by the fragrant breeze, not a stitch on her strong, fair form. Beth propped herself up on her pillows and beckoned languorously with one finger. Meredith came to her with a smile, willowy limbs swaying seductively…long fingers reached lovingly for Ceryabeth’s face…

Meredith’s head split open like an overripe melon before transmogrifying into a ravenous set of jaws. A horrid chittering sound filled the air. Beth realized belatedly that it was not her lover reaching for her, it was the creature. It was far too late to run, but she fought anyway, ripping off tentacles, gouging the thing’s eyes….

And she fell out of bed, flailing, for the fifth time in a week. She lay on the ground, thanking the Maker that it was a short drop, before pushing herself into a sitting position. She ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing when it met no resistance. She kept forgetting that her one beauty had been taken from her when Captain Sul decided that she looked better as a pointy-eared boy, damn him a thousand times.

But maybe, just maybe, tonight she could take his maddening arrogance and slam it down his throat. The Hoard was approaching; she did NOT want to take the risk that her still-captive brothers would be given to the Darkspawn. She dressed quickly, quietly slipping out of her tent and took the roundabout way to where Ser Quinlan and the others were staying. Quietly she whistled a three-note run that sounded exactly like the call of a songbird, waited ten seconds then repeated it. Quinlan appeared immediately.

“Ceyrabeth?” He had dropped his voice to almost silence. She felt a pang at the wariness in his face, but she didn’t give him a chance to talk.

“Wake men, quietly. Out.” She kept her sentences to as few words as possible, avoiding any sibilant sounds that would make her voice carry.

Quinlan immediately imitated her, “Gear?”

Ceyrabeth shook her head and indicated the pack on her back. She had carefully absconded with as much food and water skins as she could the night before, and most importantly had added the last of her lyrium vials. She had enough for each man for maybe two days if they ate little and foraged- not quite enough to get them to civilization but enough to get them out of the Legion’s range if they moved quickly enough.

Ex-Templar though she was, she puffed up with pride at how fast the men dressed and gathered. She had also lifted a map of the area from Lieutenant Pellinore- he had been kind enough to give her the history of the Legion when she asked; he had also been kind enough to get her a cup of water when the ‘smoke of the brazier’ had given her a severe coughing fit. She had felt remorse for her duplicity...until the next time she looked in a mirror. Somewhere between the hair, the ears, and the new burn scar curving along the base of her throat from Osen’s attack, her resolve hardened.

It was almost dawn when they reached the outskirts of the camp. Tregan stopped in his tracks.

“Tre…” Ceyrabeth began.

The man shook his head, ears tilted to something none of them had caught. They all halted without question. Tregan had been a scout in the employ of the Empress before joining the Templars. She watched him listen for a second, saw his expression harden, and she let out a sigh.

“What gave me away?”

“The map.” Atiya said calmly as she and Sul materialized silently from the tree line on the left. “Information is our most precious resource, Ser Ceyrabeth, and as such is monitored carefully.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.” She replied lightly, even though her hand clenched hard over her sword hilt. For just a moment she considered killing them both- Osen was nowhere in sight, and there didn’t appear to be any other guards. She didn’t know much about Atiya, so she put her odds at fifty/fifty for actually striking a killing blow.

Knowing Sul though, Atiya was probably some kind of secret automaton that could stretch her arms an obscene distance and was likely powered by elf blood from living bodies. Worse, if she failed, her men would likely die in horrible ways…

Not that that wasn’t a possibility now.

“So,” She said, injecting a bit of bravado into her voice. “What now Captain? Are we all to be thrown naked in a pit with rabid Brontos and no weapons?”

“Stop giving him ideas!” Mathias whispered frantically.

A fractional smile, coolly cordial, flashed across Sul’s visage as fleeting as ripples in a still pond. “That won’t be necessary,” He assured them quietly, “But you should know that you’re going the wrong way.”

Tregan snorted. “That’s absurd!”

“Then you are familiar with the Korcari Wilds?”

“Of course!”

“Have you heard of Barrows of Velcorminth then?”

Tregan’s demeanor took a defiant cast, “They are the final resting place of the Chasind war leader Velcorminth who led the tribes against the darkspawn during the Second Blight.”

“Very good,” The blind man said approvingly, “Do you know where they are?”

“They are several leagues north of us,” Tregan replied with the utmost confidence.

Sul turned his face to the side, “Atiya?”

Atiya scanned the horizon and then pointed into the distance, “There.”

The others turned to look at Tregan. His face fell.

“Those are _not_ several leagues away,” Mathias whispered sourly.

“I have mounts ready for you,” Sul gestured at someone unseen from behind him and continued to speak, “Head north along the Imperial Highway until you reach the West Road.”

“North is _that_ way, Ser Tregan.” Atiya pointed, her face neutral. Tregan was glaring enough for the both of them. The slight smile flickered across Sul’s face before he continued.        “You will encounter refugees fleeing from Lothering in an attempt to avoid the Darkspawn horde. I would ask that you aid them in this.”

“And why would you care about the well-being of refugees?” Tregan spat venomously, his eyes flashing.

Sul shrugged slightly, “Their deaths serve no purpose and I have no interest in seeing them added to the ranks of the Darkspawn.”

Ceyrabeth’s eyes narrowed, “The ranks of the Darkspawn? What do you mean by that?” She asked suspiciously.

“A story for another time.  You must hurry however.”

A squat man with surprisingly aristocratic features led several horses out from behind the trees behind Sul.   They were clad in heavy barding from face to hooves, yet moved surprisingly lightly.

“Eregost!” Quinlan cried out, overjoyed as he recognized his mount’s familiar coloration on the small patch of hide that showed between the gaps in the armor, “I thought I’d lost you in that damn bog,” He reached up and under the armor to stroke the mare’s nose, then frowned: the horse showed no signs of recognizing him or even acknowledging his presence, “What’s wrong girl--?”

A thunderous roar tore through the relative quiet of the swamp as a huge purple dragon flew over their heads. The flapping of its enormous wings sounded like thunderclaps.   It threw back its head and roared so loudly that the trees shook.

“That’s a high dragon!” Mathias cried out as he and the other Templars dove behind cover, hands on their weapons.

Sul and Atiya by contrast did not appear startled in the least.  Sul lifted his face to the sky and smiled, “Good, she got my message.”

Ceyrabeth had also stood her ground as she peered intently at the horses: they had remained stock still during the entire encounter and even now, completely unrestrained, remained eerily calm.  Carefully she approached Eregost.

“Ceyrabeth, what are you doing?” Mathias asked as he tried to clear the ringing from his ears.

Ignoring the other man, Ceyrabeth reached up to the straps holding Eregost’s champron to its face.  The scent of cinnamon and pitch overwhelmed her suddenly and she coughed, turning her face away.

“Eregost…?” Quinlan whispered, his face going pale as snow.

Ceyrabeth registered the scent of death a moment before she turned to face the creature.

“Maker!” She gasped, dropping the horse’s helm to the ground. Eregost’s flesh had been almost completely stripped from its head. What little remained was thin and desiccated.  Large bandages had been applied over various portions of the creature’s face and body which only added to its ghastly appearance. Green pinpoints of light glowed profanely from deep in its eye sockets.

“May I introduce Casper Pentaghast the Third,” Sul offered by way of explanation, motioning to the squat man who was just now coming out from hiding after the dragon flown by overhead. “An extremely talented _Mortalitasi_ of Nevarra.”

“What have you done?!” Ceyrabeth demanded furiously.

“You are running out of time,” Sul countered, “No living mounts could get you to the refugees in time to save any of them.  These mounts require neither food nor rest.  They will gallop tirelessly for as long as is required.”

“They are abominations!”

Sul shook his head and gestured to the Qunari woman beside him.  Placidly she handed him an apple.

“Eregost!” Sul called out and he lobbed at apple towards to reanimated creature.  Eregost leapt forward, nimbly caught the apple, and began chewing on it.

“No demon inhabits these creatures.  Each has retained a portion of its original self.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s time to ask yourself what you believe,” Sul hissed contemptuously, “What is more important to you: your lying, timid morality or making it to those refugees before they are butchered to the last child?”

Ceyrabeth swallowed an angry retort, digging her fingernails into the palm of her hand so hard that it drew blood, “I loathe you.”

Sul nodded, “You have that right,” His tone went cold as he approached the elf, “But you will obey me if you intend to serve within the Phoenix Legion.  Are we clear?”

If Ceyrabeth could have drawn her sword and cut his head off right then and there, she would have done so with a song in her heart.  Instead she carefully knelt before Sul, “What is thy bidding,…” She glared daggers up at him, “…my Captain?”

“You evil bastard!”

Ceyrabeth was bowled over as Quinlan charged Sul, his fists raised, “Quin no!” She tried to call out.

Sul waited calmly as Atiya stepped away from him.  When the enraged knight was almost upon him, the Captain pivoted on the balls of his feet and slapped a hard palm against the back of the man’s head as he charged past. The extra momentum of the strike was enough to set him off-balance. He overstepped and tumbled forward in a heap of rage and metal, plowing through a thick bed of reeds and landing in a large pool of bog water.

Ceyrabeth clamored to her feet as Sul calmly turned to regard the rapidly sinking knight, “Quin!” Shooting Sul a murderous look, she raced to the edge of the pool and stretched out her arm, “Take my hand!”

“I can’t--,” The rest of Quinlan’s words were lost as he swallowed a mouthful of water as Sul regarded the entire drama dispassionately. 

“Captain,” She pointed at the pool, her tone suddenly strained: something that resembled an oil slick was noiselessly gliding over the surface of the water towards Ser Quinlan’s flailing.

“Quinlan.  Get out of the water. Now!” Sul’s voice betrayed a hint of urgency that made Ceyrabeth’s blood run cold. She had not seen him display the slightest hint of anxiety in her presence much less the urgency that now filled his tone. 

She looked past Quinlan and frowned at the oily thing, “What is that?”

“Ceyrabeth, get him out of there,” His tone was still carefully modulated but the undertone of urgency was rapidly becoming dominant.  

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ceyrabeth removed her dagger and with a few quick cuts, slashed the straps holding her armor in place. She clenched the dagger between her teeth and dove into the water towards Quinlan.  The oil slick had gathered speed and was writhing back and forth, slowly becoming more substantial as it drew closer to them.

 _Focus!_ Ceyrabeth grit her teeth, driving the image of the oily writhing darkness from her mind and directing all her attention to saving her friend.   She reached the man and began sawing at the straps to his armor while keeping his head above water and half-swimming, half-wading towards the shore away from the slithering menace.

“We’re not going to make it!” Quinlan cried, “Leave me!”

“Never!” Ceyrabeth dragged the man closer to the muddy earth that marked the edge of the pool.  They were so close….

The oil slick reared back up like a serpent and hissed at them, opening something that resembled a wide mouth.  Bits of slime and detritus drippled from it and she was reminded forcefully of her nightmare.

 _We’re not going to make it._ Ceyrabeth thought bleakly. _Maker…._

There was a blur of movement and a loud splash. Suddenly, Sul was in the water between them and the malevolent entity in the water.  He brandished a large red crystal towards the gelatinous creature.

“ _Ínvoco nomine Neriah ille qui stabat coram urente_!” The red crystal flashed with light and Ceyrabeth suddenly felt lightheaded and strangely overheated.  A pulsing sensation went through her body that set her teeth on edge, “ _Voluntas non valebit Vyrantus te_!”

The crystal flashed crimson and the creature shrieked with a sound like a thousand claws across stone as it began to flow rapidly away from the red light.

“ _Ínvoco nomine Corin qui prohibuit rubiginem!_ ” Sul advanced relentlessly upon the shrieking entity.  The water in the pool had begun to bubble and foam as if it were boiling away.  Ceyrabeth hoisted Quinlan out of the water into the waiting arms of the others and turned to watch Sul, “ _Voluntas non valebit Krayvan te!_ ”

The creature shrieked long and loud and rose up out of the water and split into several different writhing pieces that hissed and snarled. It loomed high above the pool.

“Maker preserve us…” Ceyrabeth whispered in dread at the sheer size of the creature towering over them.

And with a chittering roar that nearly rivaled that of the dragon and froze the elven girl’s blood in her veins, a writhing mass of flesh and claws burst from the trees.

“You shall not have him!”  Chirak shrieked in a chorus of gibbering voices that emitted from all over its’ contorting body. Ceyrabeth was shocked to her very core to see her former lieutenant's head dangling from a stray portion of tissue. His eyes were wide open and his mouth emitted a wailing, gurgling sound.

Tentacles burst from Chirak’s rapidly shifting form and wrapped around the oily creature, pulling it close. Arms and legs and other limbs that couldn’t be identified exploded from Chirak’s writhing flesh to propel it forward, colliding into the viscous creature in the pool of water.  Sul dove out of the way as gibbering flesh and oily putridness tore and clawed at each other.   Mouths and horns tore their way free from Chirak to bite and stab at the thing. The knight-lieutenant's head began wail louder as the flesh bubbled and then split apart, bone and blood spraying the ground as the bisected face became another set of jaws that sank deeply into the other creature.

Chirak wrapped itself around the creature, bones stretching and then breaking before being reabsorbed into its body.  Flesh melted and flowed like wax, tearing and then reforming as it coiled around the oily entity which continued to thrash and shriek.  Chirak coiled itself around the other thing and constricted, its prey thrashing within the confines of its prison of flesh and tissue to no avail.  Chirak squeezed and squeezed, the sound of skin bursting as jagged pieces of bone erupted from the seething cauldron of tissue filled the air. 

And over all of that; the hissing of the dark entity and the chittering guttural roaring of Chirak, deafening in its intensity.

With a final wail, both creatures disappeared beneath the surface of the water and silence descended upon the scene like a pall.

Ceyrabeth didn't even have time to steady her shaking hands before she noticed a strange sight- Sul was half-draped over a log, making no effort to pull himself back to shore.  And even stranger- neither Atiya nor the Mortalitasi were making any move to help him. She could clearly see the red bloom of his blood spreading rapidly over the water. He was going to be in serious trouble if he didn't get out of there soon. She was just opening her mouth to comment when Sul lost his grip on the log and soundlessly slid under the water. She waited for Atiya or Pentaghast to make a move, but neither did- Casper just shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands, and Atiya stood there placid as a pastured druffalo, "He'll drown!" She finally expostulated.

 Atiya nodded, "Yes."

"Let him, and good riddance." Quinlan muttered.

Ceyrabeth felt the moment shimmer with startling clarity- she could let him drown. Just stand and do nothing, walk away from the Phoenix Legion knowing that a dangerous man was gone from the world. There were two EXTREMELY horrifying creatures lurking beneath the depths- an excellent reason in itself to stay on land. But....

"Beth?" She barely heard Quinlan's questioning voice. A thought was screaming at the edges of her consciousness, drowning almost everything else out, a fact, a truth, unavoidable...

...She owed him. She owed him her life, and now Quin's too. She teetered on the edge of indecision for two ticks of a second and then...

"Maferath's flaming balls!" She exclaimed furiously before diving back into the vile, malodourous water.

It took three tries but Ceyrabeth finally came up triumphant. She hauled Sul up onto the bank, Tregan and Mathias helping her. "He's not breathing," Mathias noted. Ceyrabeth immediately flipped Sul onto his stomach and slammed both her hands down on his back.

"I...am _not_...breathing air...into your lungs!" She informed him between blows. "So you...had better.... _breathe_ , Maker damn you!"

Almost as though responding to her demands, Sul seized under her hands and expelled a gush of bog water from his lungs, following it up with great, hacking coughs as his body tried to rid itself of the foreign material.  "That's it," Unconsciously, Ceyrabeth ran her hand up and down his back in comforting strokes. "Steady..."

"That cut looks nasty," Mathias crouched beside her. He gingerly pulled cloth away from Sul's side and examined what looked to be a claw wound.

Coward though he normally was, irritating and weak-willed, the second someone was injured Mathias transformed into a steady stomached, utterly exceptional field medic with a spine of iron and Ceyrabeth threw him her pack before she stood. "Patch him up," She commanded. He nodded acknowledgement but she didn't even see- she was already stalking across the short distance toward Atiya and Casper Pentaghast.

"What in the _Void_ was that?!" Ceyrabeth, delayed fear and rage pumping adrenaline through her veins, exploded with the force of a thousand suns.  "You completely, utterly _useless_ sacks of steaming druffalo dung! Traitorous, cowardly, weak-willed...that was your Captain out there! Your leader! And you were just going to let him drown like the moony-eyed, minstrel maidens that you are....by Andraste's Ever Holy Tits, I could just flay you both alive...!"

"Violette..." The name was almost too soft, but somehow Ceyrabeth heard it through her tirade. "Violette!" She turned and saw that Sul had pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was facing her, and what she saw made the blood drain from her face. Mathias had removed the sodden bandages around Sul's eyes to keep filthy bog water away from a jagged cut on Sul's hairline, and Ceyrabeth caught full sight of the ravaged tissue that proliferated the top half of the Captain's face. The sight, along with the pleading tone of his voice, drained the rage right out of her.  "You shouldn't talk like that...in front of...the baby. Promise me...” The light caught his eyes and Ceyrabeth gasped.

Where she had once seen only empty eye sockets were dozens of tiny shards of colored glass that morphed into different patterns and reformed.  The likeness of pupils and sclera would emerge, assembled from minuscule pieces of glass before they would swirl and then fade away to be replaced by other seemingly random shapes and patterns.  The effect was hypnotic as the prismatic shards spun transformed like a kaleidoscope.

It was bizarre.  And alien.  And beautiful.

“Violette?”

His voice broke the spell and Ceyrabeth shook herself violently to clear it; he was delirious. She turned her back on Atiya, who had stood like a deactivated golem under her onslaught, and went to crouch by Sul. Ignoring the fact that she had no idea who Violette was and there wasn’t a baby anywhere in the Phoenix Legion that she remembered seeing, she reassured him, "I promise."

"Good." A brief smile flickered over his face, "She learns so fast now...remembers everything.  Violette? Why can't I see? It… hurts, Violette!" He seized her hand, and she was completely unsurprised to find it already burning with heat from fever.

"It's time to rest now," Ceyrabeth patted the back of his hand gingerly, nodded when Mathias tilted a vial in Sul's direction. "Just relax."

"When will it stop?" He rasped.

Ceyrabeth felt the change like an electric charge in the air. One minute Sul was talking to the mysterious ‘Violette’ and the next second, she would have bet her left arm that he knew exactly who she was.

The honest answer was probably 'never' in Sul's case but she didn’t have to decide whether or not to tell him that- Mathias waved the vial under Sul's nose and the Captain went limp. Ceyrabeth gingerly lowered him to the ground.

"Red poppy," Mathias said to her questioning glance. "It'll help with the pain too, but not for long."

"Help me get him up," She replied. "Quinlan!"

"Here," The answer was a bit sullen in Ceyrabeth's ears, but she let it slide.

"I'm taking Eregost."

"The demon horse?!" Quinlan recoiled.

She rolled her eyes, "Out of all the things we’ve seen and that's what gets you?" She huffed, "Yes, the demon horse. Help me get him..."

"No."

Ceyrabeth's eyebrows almost hit her hairline. "No?"

"No. You may be willing to jump into a poisonous bog for your new Captain, but I'm certainly not going to do anything that will prolong his life span."

Ceyrabeth bit her lip against the explosion of fury that sent stars skittering across her vision. "Fine," She replied through the taste of blood, metallic across her tongue. "Then get your _arses_ on those horses and ride to Lothering. Or are you willing to let them die too?"

Ceyrabeth saw the flicker of indecision on Quinlan's face before he nodded consent. "Lothering, then Denerim. What do we tell the Revered Mother?" He asked.

"The truth, of course."

The truth that would brand both her and Keiran traitors, that would spell the end of the life that she had worked so hard for. Quinlan's face softened with pity as he nodded again and swung up into the saddle of the nearest horse. Tregan and Mathias followed him. "Maker be with you, Ceyrabeth."

"And with you all." That was all she trusted herself to say. She turned to try and hoist Sul into the saddle...and found herself face to face with Ser Corellan. She had almost forgotten he was there- he hadn't panicked with the dragon or the horses, hadn’t made a sound when the bog monster attacked. But there he was, silently helping Beth lift the Captain and depositing him gently on Eregost's back before swinging into his own saddle. He briefly clasped her hand before riding away and Ceyrabeth knew with certainty that she would see Ser Corellan again.

But for now..."Let's take you home," She told the unconscious man draped in front of her. And with a loud "Hyah!", they were speeding off toward camp, Atiya and Pentaghast following closely behind on their own mounts.

 

When they returned, Atiya lifted the unconscious captain from the saddle as if he weighed no more than a child and carried him back into his tent.  Ceyrabeth moved to follow, “No,” Atiya said tonelessly, “I will tend to him.”

Ceyrabeth opened her mouth to object, “Listen--!”

The rest was lost as Atiya dropped the flap to the tent cutting the elven woman off.

The Qunari woman lowered Sul onto his cot, his glass eyes wide and unseeing as she removed something from her belt and placed it beneath his nose.  The effect was immediate: he lurched straight up in his cot coughing.  Atiya placed one massive hand on his back to steady him.

“Well?” Sul croaked.

“All transpired as you commanded,” She reported, “Neither myself nor Casper interfered when your life was imperiled.  Ceyrabeth took it upon herself to rescue you after accosting us both,” She shrugged.

Sul nodded as Atiya handed him his onyx pipe, “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“Who is Violette?”

Sul remained still for a long time.  Then, “Where did you hear that name?”

“You were delirious and talking out of your head.  Is she important?”

“She is neither your concern nor your business,” Sul’s tone was glacial as he lit his pipe. “Are we clear?”

Atiya shrugged fractionally, “It would appear that Ceyrabeth passed your test.”

Sul nodded and ran a hand through his graying hair, “The first of many.”

Atiya tipped her massive head, “To what end?”

Sul’s smile would have made the Qunari shiver if she were capable of processing emotion, “Why the only end that matters,” He blew out a plume of smoke, “Victory: utter, complete and total.”

.:*:.

Ceyrabeth bowled over a squire as she stalked away from Sul’s tent.  Whatever insults were hurled her way never penetrated the crimson fog around her vision and the roaring in her ears.  She was furious. She had felt something during the battle when she saw Drachaen wounded that confused her, which only served to make her angrier—

She stopped dead.  _Since when did he become “Drachaen?”_

She cast the errant thought aside and scowled harder as she approached her tent.  If that manipulative son of a bitch thought she would just—

Without warning she was snatched up and spun in the air as a voice boomed in her ears.

 _“Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso, notte e giorno d'intorno girando!”_ A thickly accented voice sang, tossing the elf girl to and fro and around in circles in some bizarre combination of a waltz and a seizure, _“Delle belle turbando il riposo Narcisetto, Adoncino d'amor!”_ She was dipped low and found herself bent over backwards staring at an upside-down version of the camp.

“Why, there’s life in the young woman yet!” The booming voice called out and Ceyrabeth was yanked forward so hard it nearly caused whiplash and deposited onto her feet.  She managed half a step before pitching forward.  With a supreme effort she managed to keep her feet underneath her, even as her hand attempted to yank her blade from its scabbard.   Then she got a look at the man and stopped dead, paralyzed by utter confusion.

He was tall with ebony skin and wore a wide brimmed white hat with gold trim.  He was clad in emerald green leather breeches with matching vest that was cut so high his bare stomach-along with its well defined muscles- was exposed.  Several earrings dangled from his ears and he was adorned with several straps and buckles around his waist and down both legs- all done in white and gold like his hat.  Odd, low-slung holsters hung at both his hips which held a pair of strangely designed curved hilts.

He flashed a grin that could only be described as thoroughly roguish. Ceyrabeth was shocked to see that his teeth were filed to points and capped in iridescent purple which was almost certainly Nevarrite.

“Greetings and salutations!” The stranger gave a sweeping bow, removing his hat. His hair was an unruly combination of crimson Mohawk and white braids.  A pair of horns, one broken off, extended outwards from his skull marking him as Qunari, “Ser Peloquin of Seheron, at your service!”

“Peloquin.”

The foppish Qunari replaced his hat and peered past Ceyrabeth. She turned to look. Atiya and Sul were striding forward.  The Captain showed no ill effects from his rough morning.

 _One tough son-of-a-bitch_. Ceyrabeth shook her head ruefully.

“My dearest Lady Atiya, my love, my _kadan_!” Peloquin dashed forward and scooped her hand up in his, dotting it with several kisses, “Every moment without you was like an eternity of torment.  We must not be parted again!”

Atiya stared at the man blankly and then removed her hand from his grip.

“Peloquin.”

Peloquin’s demeanor immediately became deferential as he addressed Sul, “My captain, I come bearing glad tidings: I’m pleased to announce our mission in Seheron was successful.”

Sul nodded once, “Walk with me.”  The Qunari swashbuckler offered his arm which the blind man took and led him through the camp. Atiya following behind closely and at her beckoning hand, Ceyrabeth shadowed them from a distance.  Peloquin and Sul began to converse as they approached a large group of men, women, and children that looked strangely out of place in the military encampment.

“We managed to acquire twenty slaves from Devon for just under a hundred sovereigns and—“

“ _What?!_ ”

Peloquin spun around, dropping Sul’s arm and going for the curved hilts at his hips as Ceyrabeth came rampaging up to them, “You’re a slaver?!”

Sul turned more calmly, “No, I’m not,” He replied icily and gestured.  Ceyrabeth focused and saw that several people were working to force metal bracers and collars off their throats, tossing them in a pile of rusted metal.

“You’re….freeing them?” Ceyrabeth asked stunned, “But...”

“I do not keep slaves,” Sul replied, “Not now, not ever.  They are free and will be offered food, sanctuary and an offer of employment in the Legion.”

Peloquin regained his whimsy as he reached forward and scooped up a little girl,” Except for this one!” He roared playfully twirling the madly giggling child around in a circle, “I am going to take her to Orlais and make her my bride and we shall go to all the wonderful parties, eat lots of cake and dance all night! _Non più avrai questi bei pennacchini, quel cappello leggero e galante_!” Peloquin sang and dipped, spinning the girl like a top.

“You’re not seriously going to put a child on the front lines.” Ceyrabeth scoffed.

“An army consists of more than soldiers,” Sul replied softly, his tone still chilly, “There is food to be prepared, arms to be maintained, mounts to be tended, supplies to be organized. All of this requires the support of hundreds of people,” He indicated the former slaves with a nod, “People like them.  They shall receive food and lodging as well as compensation and in turn they will do their part to support the Phoenix Legion.”

“All except this one, Captain,” Peloquin grinned around a mouthful of purple teeth, “Her and I have to get married right away and eat Antivan cake until we are ill!” He poked the little girl’s stomach, causing her to giggle, “Don’t we, my little princess?”

“I like cake,” The child exclaimed.

The Qunari swashbuckler grinned wider, “So do I,” He began to twirl the girl around as he began to sing again, “ _Quella chioma, quell'aria brillante_ \--.”

“You should be careful!” Ceyrabeth scolded. “She’s wounded!”

Sul stepped forward and grabbed Peloquin’s arm jarring him to an abrupt stop.

“What’s the matter Captain, you don’t like cake?” Peloquin asked with a cautious expression.

Gingerly, Sul touched the little girl’s leg and brought his fingers back smeared with blood.  Bringing the blood to his fingers he inhaled once and immediately stiffened.  The air around him became almost palpable with menace, causing Ceyrabeth to edge away despite herself.

“She has been defiled,” Sul stated in a black tone, rubbing his thumb and finger together, smearing the blood.

“That she has,” Peloquin nodded, his tone still jovial in contrast to his stern expression.

“Where is he?”

Peloquin peeled his lips back into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth and gently put the little girl on her feet, “Run now, go to mama,” He smacked her backside lightly and she ran towards the group of former slaves.  Reaching down, he picked up large sodden bag, reached within…

…and removed a severed head.  He casually tossed it to Sul who caught it.  The head had been decapitated at the jawline and the flesh from his cheeks was missing, but the wide-eyed stare of terror was still affixed to what remained of his visage.

“Devon?”

“One of his lackeys who apparently cannot be made to follow our very clear instructions on the treatment of the slaves we procure.”

Ceyrabeth was staring at the entire exchange with kind of a detached interest: it was almost as if after all that she had already seen, a severed head wasn’t all that shocking. In fact, she found the man’s gristly fate strangely satisfying.

“Where’s the rest of him?” Sul asked.

Peloquin turned his head away and discreetly belched into his hand.

“Fair enough,” Sul handed the head back to the Qunari.

“Whilst we’re on the subject,” Peloquin reached into his belt and removed a pouch, “Orlesian Black Truffles from the markets of Alam as requested.”

Sul took the bag from him, opened and gingerly placed his nose above the bag and inhaled deeply.  An intensely satisfied smile crossed his lips.

“The Captain’s table eats well tonight aye?” Peloquin asked grinning.

“Indeed,” Sul replied, “I shall make certain to include you in the festivities.”

“What is it you plan on making again?”

“Never ask before the meal, it ruins the surprise,” He held up the bag, “But these will make a fine addition, no?”

Peloquin licked his chops, “To die for.”

Sul handed the bag to Atiya and then frowned, his nostrils flaring.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Atiya inquired placidly.

“A scent. “Something familiar--.”

With a roar of rage, a hooded man burst from amongst the former captives, “ _Astia valla femundis_!” He slammed his fists into first one guard then the other and leapt over them charging Sul head on.

“Captain!” Peloquin cried out. 

Ceyrabeth tore her blade free and moved to intercept the lanky attacker.

Sul simply held up a hand and the man jerked to a stop, completely paralyzed.  Ceyrabeth felt something akin to an electric shock run through her body that was so intense, she dropped her sword from her suddenly numb hand, “There is no need for that,” Sul stated calmly as he approached the now paralyzed attacker. 

Ceyrabeth bent stiffly to retrieve her weapon as she scrutinized the other man, whose muscles were trembling violently, straining against whatever enchantment Sul had used on him.

Sul removed the man’s hood to reveal flashing green eyes embedded into angular features and pointed ears.

“Well, well,” Sul mused as he examined the strange silver lines that adorned the elf’s arms lightly tracing them with a single finger.  The lines began to glow and a strange humming sound filled the air. “…what have we here?” He looked up from his examination and smiled with a predatory pleasure, “It’s been a long time…little wolf.”


	8. Reunions and Recollections

The elf was marched into Sul’s tent by several angry looking guards. One of them was nursing a broken nose; the result of an aborted attempt to shackle the man.  Shadowing him closely was Reaper Maul.  There was no sense of kinship between the two elves contrary to what might be expected save for a certain gleam of restrained mayhem and carnage that burned in both their expressions.

“Oi!” Maul shoved the elf towards the Captain who was settling into his chair regarding their captive thoughtfully, “Bow your head, you’re in the presence of greatness.”

“I bow for no man,” The elf replied icily, “Not anymore.”

Maul scowled and opened his mouth-

“Leave us.”

Sul’s voice was the same even tone that it always was and Maul knew well enough not to disobey, “All right Cap’n, if you’re certain,” Maul turned his attention to other in the room, “Right, clear out you lot! Cap’n’s orders,” He grabbed Ceyrabeth’s arm, “And you luv—“

“She stays.”

Calm. Controlled. And totally implacable.  Both Ceyrabeth and Maul turned to regarding the Captain for a moment.  Then a slow smile crept over Ceyrabeth’s face; she plucked Maul’s hand off her arm as if it were something loathsome, “You have your orders….Sergeant.”

Maul looked outraged; the expression provided the other woman with a great deal of satisfaction.  Then he swallowed back whatever he was about to say, managed a haphazard salute and departed.

The prisoner turned to watch them go then turned back, “They’ve departed.”

“Yes,” Sul said simply rising from his chair.

The elf surged forward, faster than he had any right to be.  Ceyrabeth dove for her sword but it was too late. The elf had Sul in his grasp…

…and with a loud whoop he hugged the blind man, laughing.

Ceyrabeth’s mouth sagged open as the elf pounded Sul on the back a few times and then pulled away, “I think our performance was convincing.”

“I concur,” Sul replied with a slight smile, taking his seat.  He clicked his tongue a few times and Osen came racing out of the shadows and jumped into his lap, demanding his master’s attention.  After a few moments of petting, Osen settled into the man’s lap. “Did you have any trouble getting out of Seheron, Fenris?”

Fenris shook his head, “No, your Qunari fop met me at the harbor at his ship.”

“And your journey from the wilds?”

A shadow crossed over his face as pains still fresh moved across his features, “Well enough. Your man in Seheron made sure I made it to the port.  What was his name again?”

“His family name is ‘Pavus’; his father is a man of influence.”

“A magister?” Fenris spat.

“And a bitter rival of Danarius.  It was what ultimately convinced him to leave his family in Qarinus.”

“A magister as a doting father and husband,” Fenris scoffed shaking his head, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“He does tend to dote on his son, Dorian,” Sul acknowledged, “Though not without reason; the young man is a skilled mage but also a principled one.”

“Mages! Bah!”

“He’s also the man who saved your life and bound your wounds after the incident with the Fog Warriors.”

Fenris stopped short, his fists curled up and his entire posture resembled that of a coiled snake ready to strike.    Ceyrabeth’s hand moved to her sword again….

…then Fenris sighed and hung his head, “Fair point.”

Sul nodded in acknowledgement and gestured to Atiya, “Pour the wine please.”

Ceyrabeth released her grip on her weapon and sighed, inwardly relieved. This ‘Fenris’ radiated barely constrained violence, more a beast than a man.

As if reading her thoughts, the elf whirled around and impaled her with a green eyed stare. “Who in blazes are you?”

“Calm yourself,” Sul instructed quietly, “This is Ceyrabeth; former Templar and newest member of the Legion.”

“And you trust her?”

Sul smiled as if enjoying a private joke immensely, “Oh I trust her with my life.”

Ceyrabeth felt something begin to tickle in the back of her mind at his tone; like spiders inside her head.  She was missing something, she knew it, and she gritted her teeth in frustration as Atiya leaned over Fenris to pour the wine.

“Maker!” The other elf cried, “A _saarebas_?”

 “What makes you say that?” The blind man asked mildly.

“Ply your tricks elsewhere, Drachaen!” Fenris pointed at Atiya’s face, “Those scars around her mouth; Qunari stitching as they do with all their kind!”

“The Qunari sewed her mouth shut?” Ceyrabeth exclaimed aghast.

“They did,” Atiya replied tonelessly as she finished filling Sul’s goblet and took her place behind him, “It is the demand of the Qun imposed upon all born with magic.”

Ceyrabeth’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull as her hand dove for her weapon, her ingrained Templar instincts taking hold.  A mage!

“Former _Saarebas_ ,” Sul interjected, “She’s no enemy of yours Fenris,” He turned his obscured gaze to Ceyrabeth, “Or yours, former Templar Ceyrabeth.”

Ceyrabeth beat down her rising temper as she focused intently on her wine goblet, her knuckles turning white. 

Fenris frowned, “Former, but how-?” His eyes went wide, “The Rite of Tranquility,” He breathed, “I did not think the Qunari practiced it!”

“As a rule, they do not,” Sul informed him calmly.

“Then how--?”

“Drink your wine, old friend.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes over his goblet then took a long pull, his eyes going wide in surprise, “Is this the-?”

“Aggregio Pavali?”  Sul smiled thinly as his lowered his hawkish nose towards his own goblet and inhaled deeply before taking a measured sip, his expression relaxing, pleased, “Eight-Seventy Blessed: From the collection of the Black Divine himself, commissioned to celebrate the anniversary of the burning of Andraste.”

Ceyrabeth could not suppress a derisive snort, “How very pious of them,” She commented bitterly, “And tasteful,” She eyed her untouched wine with open disdain.

“Tasteful, indeed,” The Captain countered and took another long drink, settling back against his chair with an air of confidence and self-satisfaction that bordered on smugness.

Very deliberately, Ceyrabeth set her wine glass in the middle of the table, as far from her as she could manage, sat back and crossed her arms. 

“It seems the wine does not agree with your companion’s palette,” Fenris commented dryly. He eyed the elven woman warily whilst simultaneously attempting to preempt whatever anger Sul respond with to such rudeness.

“So it would seem,” Sul shrugged fractionally and the tension dissipated from the room.

“You know,” the lanky elf mused, “I haven’t had this since-“

“The meeting with Arl Howe back in Amaranthine?”

“Stop doing that!” Fenris snarled good-naturedly, “It makes you look ridiculously pretentious.”

Sul held up a hand to placate the other man, his lips curled back in a faint expression of amusement.

“I remember that night,” Fenris continued, “You insisted that I drink with the rest of you: a magister’s slave to sit at the same table as his master.”

“Former master,” Sul corrected gently, “You are not a slave.  Not any longer.”

Fenris raised his glass in silent toast to that sentiment and began to chuckle throatily, “I still remember the look on the Hadriana and Danrius’s faces; they looked ready to have an apoplexy.  I remember that Danarius refused to drink at all!”

Sul nodded sagely, “Howe was totally out of his element; attempting to coerce a magister of Tevinter the way he would a street peddler in in Denerim.”

“So why did you do it?”  Fenris asked leaning forward eager with curiosity, “Was it just for your own amusement?”

“Deliberately pissing off a Tevinter Magister, just for a laugh?” Ceyrabeth interjected, “Sounds like him.”

“You can tell a lot of a man from how he treats whom he considers his lesser,” Sul shrugged, “I wanted to see what I could learn.”

“And what did you learn, pray tell?”

“I learned that Danarius had something in common with Ser Ceyrabeth.”

Fenris’s eyes became slits of paranoia and barely contained violence, “And what might that be?” He rumbled. 

Ceyrabeth’s hand closed on the hilt of her sword.

“The wine did not agree with his palette either.”

For a moment silence filed the tent and then Ceyrabeth’s jaw dropped _He told a joke_!

Fenris threw his head back and roared with laughter, tears were streaming from his eyes as he slapped his thigh, “Brilliant!”

“Every now and then,” Sul gestured to Atiya, “More wine?”

“Maker, yes!”

Aitya dutifully poured the wine and Fenris took a long pull from it, “That was also the night,” He began quietly, “That Hadriana’s child was found Tranquil”

“Virstania,” Sul replied.

“That’s right, that was her name,” Fenris shook his head, “Evil little shit, all six years of her miserable life,” He muttered.

“Hey!” Ceyrabeth snapped, “We’re talking about a little girl here.  She’s not an evil little shit, she was a child.”

Fenris’ expression curled disdainfully, “I had no idea, Drachaen, that you had enlisted such a moral crusader.  So eager to play mommy to all those poor, lost and broken children.”

Ceyrabeth’s cheeks flushed crimson and she got to her feet, her face twisted with anger.

“Sit down,” Sul’s voice cracked like a whip and

She started to obey but instead shook herself and whirled on the blind man, “You condone what he did?!”

“He did nothing.”

“Then who—?” Her face drained of all its blood, “….you?” She managed to gasp out, “You did that to…to a child?”

“When I first scented blood, I left my meal and proceeded into the courtyard,” Sul’s voice was soft but devoid of any trace of warmth, “I found Virstania:  She had broken the back of a kitten and was busy pulling the eye out of another,” Sul’s tone became colder still, “I remember that, after I made her stop, I asked her why she had done this. Do you know what she said to me, Lieutenant Vallorin?”

Something inside Ceyrabeth’s soul shuddered  and tried to draw away; whether it was his tone or his recounting but the young elf felt sick somewhere deep inside her core. She slowly shook her head.

 “’Because I could.’”

 “Maker,” Fenris hissed, “Then what?”

“Then I kicked the child in the chest, pinned her to the ground with my boot, crushed several of her ribs as well as her arm and proceeded to do what needed be done,”

“Why not just kill her?” Fenris asked.

“Hadriana and Erimond required a lesson in what is acceptable and unacceptable behavior. Pain is a useful teacher: its lessons are understood by all and are never ignored.”

“I remember Hadriana when they found her,” Fenris shook his head, “She was beside herself, hysterical.  I think that might have been the only time I ever actually felt sorry for her,” He lowered his goblet, “You’re very lucky that Danarius didn’t learn you were responsible.”

“Don’t be naive, my old friend,” Sul admonished, “Danarius was perfectly aware who was responsible for Virstania’s condition.”

Fenris’s mouth sagged open, “Then why didn’t he confront you?”

“Why should he?” Sul shrugged, “He is a pragmatist; what was done was done and he wasn’t about to jeopardize any potential dealings we may have had in the future over something as trivial as his apprentice’s daughter.  What care he for a child at any rate?” Sul sipped his drink.

“That’s cold.”

“Such is the way of this world, currently at least.”

Ceyrabeth finally found her voice, “Did Hadriana and Erimus—?”

“Erimond.  Livius Erimond,” Sul corrected quietly.

“Did they ever have any more children?”

Fenris drained his cup and peered into it unhappily, “No” he finally replied, “Hadriana had been pregnant at the time but she miscarried and her womb was destroyed, though that could have just as easily been from her use of blood magic.”

“The loss of Hadriana’s bloodline will not be keenly felt by the world,” Sul commented dryly.

“True enough,”

“What happened to the kittens?” Ceyrabeth interjected softly. “Did they die?”

“Actually no,” Sul replied, “I was able to repair the damage done to the kitten’s spine using alchemy and relinquished him into the care of the groundskeeper at the time: Samuel a kindly man of elvish descent,” Sul leaned back in his chair, “I oft wonder what happened to that kitten.”

“And the oth—”

There was a crash of metal outside, screams and Maul’s voice booming outside.

“Cap-tain!”

“What in blazes?!” Fenris leapt to his feet and raced out of the tent; Sul rose from his chair more calmly.

“Did you do it?” Ceyrabeth’s whisper was raw, “Did you do something to that woman and her baby?”

Sul reached towards and shelf and removed a small bag.

“Have you heard of ‘The Daughters of Song’?”

“Should I have?”

“Probably not,” Sul conceded, “They were an orgiastic cult back in the Emperor Drakon’s day that believed the greatest form of worship they could offer Andraste and The Maker was to reenact the consummation of their relationship in the flesh.  In as many ways as possible.”

Ceyrabeth’s expression morphed into revulsion, “An orgiastic cult. Why do I need to know this?”

“In the end, they were hedonists and harmless but that didn’t stop him from exterminating thousands of them down to the last child in his bid to secure his throne.”

“They sound like heretics and they received the Maker’s judgment.”

“They also happened to be pacifists,” Sul countered, “They offered no resistance when they were put to the blade.”

“Does this all have a point?”

“Just this,” Sul tossed the bag at Ceyrabeth who caught it deftly, “The Daughters of Song knew they could not provide for every child that would be conceived during their frequent couplings so the women would swallow one of these seeds.  It would, in essence, prevent pregnancy.”

“What does that—?”  She stopped, “What would happen if someone took one of these seeds if they were already with child?”

“Not one.   Five.”

Ceyrabeth’s eyes went wide, “How—”

“One day you will learn that sacrifices must be made,” The blind man replied, “Victory comes with a cost.  Do not be so quick to judge by one’s methods without first considering what is sought to be accomplished.”

“I can’t—”

Sul reached into his jacket and removed his pipe which he lit with the flame of a nearby sconce, “You need to put your personal feelings aside, Ceyrabeth. Make no mistake; we’re at war.  Nobody wants to admit it, but Thedas and all who inhabit it are under attack.  Our world is far more fragile than we’d like to think.   If the world- our world, Ceyrabeth- is to be saved change must be affected through whatever means we have at our disposal.”

There was another loud crash outside followed the sounds of violence, “Sir,” Atiya whispered quietly.

“Now,” Sul reached up and removed his bindings, his crystal eyes shifting in a dizzying array of red, yellow, and violet, “Let’s see what the Ben-Hassrath want with the Phoenix Legion.”

 

They exited the tent to find the immediate area in a state of disarray: two guards were down, one sitting propped upright nursing a badly dislocated shoulder and the other seemed to be barely clinging to consciousness.

“See to them,” Sul whispered to Atiya, taking a cloak from a sentry and drawing the hood up over his face.  She nodded and directed men to tend to the wounded.   He reached out and put his hand on the dislocated shoulder of the wounded guard.

“Andraste’s flaming ass!” The guard hissed, “Watch what you’re—” He then looked up and immediately turned fish-belly white, “Captain!” He blanched.

“Be still,” Sul replied quietly, giving his shoulder a quick examination, “This will hurt.”

“Sir—?”

Sul twisted his grip on the man’s shoulder and yanked it forward hard.  There was an audible *pop*.

“Sweet Maker!” The wounded man gasped.

Sul reached out, took the man’s hand in his and heaved him to his feet.  The soldier found himself on his feet before he knew it; clearly the older man was stronger than he looked, “Thank you Captain sir.”

“Report to the medics and then inform the quartermaster that you and any other wounded man is to receive two portions each of officer’s rations.

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

“Dismissed.”

The man started to draw his arm up then winced and saluted awkwardly with the other arm before limping away, clutching at his arm.

Sul turned to scrutinize the captive: she was a small, thin elf with short dark hair clad in rags. She was, for all appearances, a former slave.   Or how someone pretending to be one would appear.  Currently Maul had both her arms pinned behind her back. Fenris had collected a fallen sword from one of the guards and had it trained on her, his green eyes narrow and suspicious. Ceyrabeth flanked him, sword and shield at the ready.

“Well, well,” Sul murmured quietly, “What have we here?”

The elf girl smiled brightly, “Uh, hi! I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Sul smiled fractionally although Ceyrabeth could not discern if he was genuinely amused or simply attempting to disquiet the girl, “That is reasonable,” He admitted, “Perhaps if you were to explain yourself, an understanding could be reached.”

The elf girl looked confused at the cordiality she was being shown and Ceyrabeth couldn’t suppress a smile of her own: The Captain could do more to intimidate with good manners than anyone else could manage with any amount of bluster or threatening.

“Okay well—” She began

Sul shook his head, “No, first there is another matter to attend to,” Sul’s shrouded head lifted slightly, “Sergeant: please position her arms upon her chest, fists up tight under her chin.”

“Aye cap’n!”  The enormous man grunted and began to push the girl’s hands into position.  The girl surprisingly put up a great deal of resistance; she was also stronger than she looked.

“If Maul is forced to break both your arms, it will make further negotiations that much more difficult,” Sul commented softly.

The elf girl blanched, “Okay, yeah that’s not creepy at all,” But she relented and soon her fists were wedged under her chin.

“Thank you Maul,” Sul replied, “Now, please squeeze the underside of both of her wrists three times in rapid succession and then let her go and fall back as quickly as possible.

Maul looked confused but obeyed.   The elf girl’s eyes went wide with terror, “No-!”

There was a sharp hissing sound and Maul managed to duck out of the way as a cloud of green powder shot out from the girl’s sleeves and coated her face.   She began to cough violently and fell to her knees, hunched over as Maul backed away from the toxic cloud.

“I thought so,” Sul said gently, “You are a long way from home, yes?”

There was a flash of movement and a dagger flew from the girl’s hands towards Sul.

“Captain!” Ceyrabeth cried out.   Sul held up a hand and the same high pitched keening sound rose again, setting her teeth on edge as it had when Sul had paralyzed Fenris.   In slow motion, Ceyrabeth saw the oncoming blade start to wobble.

And then Sul lashed out with his free hand and caught the dagger by the blade, a millimeter from his face.

“Maker!” Ceyrabeth blurted. She had seen Antivan duelists who could move quickly before, but that was…. _uncanny_.

The elf girl meanwhile looked crestfallen, “Oh, well….shit,” She sighed.  Then she cried out as Maul hauled her up the back of the neck.

“Miserable little bitch!” He spat, “I’ll break you in half!”  He lifted the girl above his head and began to fold her.  The girl’s body began to crack and her eyes were wide, panic stricken at the ungodly strength that had her in its grasp.

“That will do, Sergeant,” Sul instructed softly, “You may release her now.”

Maul looked at the captain in shock and opened his mouth to protest.

“Sergeant,” Ceyrabeth interrupted, “You heard our captain.”  For a moment she thought she saw Sul smile at the use of “our captain”.

“Sod it!” Maul grumbled and he threw the elf girl to the ground so hard that she bounced.  She cried out in pain and lay still: her spine a howling inferno of agony.

Sul stretched out his hand to the girl, “Are you prepared to resume negotiations civilly or should I ask Maul to break you in two?”

The elvish girl looked up at Sul, unable to see past the darkness of his cowl, “I think I’d like to try talking now,” She confessed.

“Wise decision,”   Sul hauled the girl up to her feet.  The girl cried out in pain and nearly toppled over before the man caught her.

“That really hurt!” She exclaimed.

“Yes, I imagine it did,” Sul replied calmly.

The young girl composed herself, “Well, I guess I should introduce myself.”

“No need,” He reached under his hood and removed his bindings though his features remained hidden from view,  “You’ve colored your hair with fermented indigo. I smelled it when you first arrived: Indigo only grows in wettest, hottest climates, such as those found in the north.  You are armed with _saar-qamek_ poison, but have clearly inoculated yourself against its effect as you are currently neither raving nor dying,” He held up the knife she had thrown at him, “And your dagger is composed of blue steel and onyx with traces of lyrium,” He handed the knife back to her, “And it’s a half gram heavy on the back end.”

The elf girl caught the blade looking thoroughly gob-smacked, “How—?”

Ceyrabeth felt a moment of sympathy for the girl, having been the target of Sul’s insight several times.  Sul pulled back his hood and his shifting glass eyes stared directly into the elf girl’s face,

“ _Shanedan_ , viddathari,” He said calmly, his eyes transforming into pools of glittering yellow glass.

The elf girl blanched at the sight, her horrified expression reflected back to her in a thousand golden shards, “ _Vashedan_!”

“Just so.  Taarlok?”

“Tallis,” She corrected him more by reflex than anything else, “My name is Tallis.”

“Very well,” Sul gestured to a nervous looking sentry.  As Sul locked eyes with the man, the yellow faded from his crystalline gaze and was replaced with shades of green and blue with only a faint yellow at the center, “Issue the command to break down the last of the tents, make certain that all auxiliary personnel have been evacuated and then summon my mount.”

 “Yes, sir!”  The sentry saluted and immediately began shouting out commands.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” Ceyrabeth commented quietly, her tone dark, “Aren’t you even the least bit worried?”

Sul calmly turned to the elven woman, his glass eyes shifting and morphing into shades of red and violet.  He raised one eyebrow in an expression of mild interest.

“What I’m saying, Captain, is that there serves no purpose in waiting.  It’s risky and unnecessary.”

“All war is risk,” Sul replied, crimson shards spreading through his eyes, “I should think you would have come to understand that by now.”

“But why—?”

“You want to see what the darkspawn will do!”

Both pairs of eyes turned to regard Tallis; the red and violet faded from Sul’s eyes replaced with cool shades of blue and green as he met the young woman’s gaze, “Continue.”

Tallis swallowed past a dry throat and plowed ahead, “You’re not just fighting the darkspawn; you’re studying them.  You want to see how they’ll act the closer they get to you, if maybe they start doing different stuff?” She bit her lip and prayed she was right.

Sul held her gaze a moment longer; the green fading from his gaze shifting into complete blue with streaks of yellow, “Very good.”

Tallis exhaled a sigh of relief as Ceyrabeth eyed first her then Sul incredulously, “What they’ll do?! I can tell you what they’ll ‘do’! They’ll do what they did to the king and his men and come in here and kill every last one of us! We need to leave!”

“Then leave, Lieutenant.”

Sul’s words and tone caught her like a sword to the gut, “Sir—?”

“You are dismissed, Lieutenant.  If you cannot follow my orders than your presence is unnecessary.”

Ceyrabeth felt the blood pounding in her head, demanding something _anything_ to relieve the awful tension and rage as well as the hurt that lie within at its core.  She opened her mouth to protest…but closed it again. Her hands were clenched so tightly the nails were drawing blood from her palms and her knuckles had turned white.  She saluted and stormed away, her vision tinted red.  She came upon the sentry and without warning grabbed him by his collar and slammed him against a tree.

“We. Are. _Leaving_!” She snarled, “Am I perfectly clear?!”

“Ye-yes ma’am!” He stammered his eyes wide and fearful.  Ceyrabeth shook him once for emphasis and released the man who scurried away as if all the demons of the Void were at his back. She resumed her furious pace to anywhere that wasn’t near Sul, “Move!” She roared at the next person in her path, shoulder checking him out of the way.

Fenris grunted and nearly went down as Ceyrabeth plowed into him and continued on.  He opened his mouth to comment but something in the woman’s face convinced him this was not wise and he held his tongue.

“Charming girl,” He muttered under his breath watching the red-haired elf stalk away.

_Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!_ Ceyrabeth fumed internally, her scowl and pace doing much to clear any traffic before her, “He’s going to get himself killed,” She snarled under her breath, “He’s going to gamble and he’s going to lose and then he’ll die and—!”

_Since when does that bother you?_

The thought stopped the woman dead in her tracks her scowl became deeper and darker.  To distract herself, she watched the last of the camp being packed up and noticed that various tent poles had been left protruding out of the cold earth.  She frowned.  Copper? She thought incredulously. “What in blazes is he up to now?”

Gritting her teeth in frustration, she stalked towards the stables, her fists still clenched with vice-like intensity.  When she finally reached the stables for a final sweep, all of the horses were already gone...except one.

"Eregost, girl, what are you doing here?" It was easier in the dim light to see what a magnificent animal she had been...Quinlan was so proud when he finally saved up enough to buy her. Ceyrabeth couldn't remember seeing anyone ride higher in the saddle, armor gleaming in the sun, the perfect image of what a Templar ought to be...

She shook the memory off as a familiar squat form walked through the door. "Shouldn't you be helping break down the camp? Or are you specifically reserved for daring bog rescues?"

Ceyrabeth narrowed her eyes at the sarcasm in Casper Pentaghast's tone. "You need to keep a better watch on your stable hands. They forgot Eregost."

"They didn't _forget_ anything. I'm here to take care of it now."

"It? Eregost is a mare..."

"It's a reanimate. It doesn't matter what it used to be."

Pentaghast rubbed his hands together. A low hum made the hairs on Ceyrabeth's neck stand on end. Eregost backed, rolling her bright pinprick of an eye as the little man approached. It whickered softly, not panicking but definitely unhappy, "What are you doing to her?" She asked warily.

"Giving her back to the Void."

Suddenly it didn't matter to Ceyrabeth that the horse wasn't really a horse or that it had demon eyes or that a good portion of its ribs were visible out of the pale flesh of its torn side. They were just going to end her. Like stomping on a cockroach.

Ceyrabeth grabbed Casper's reaching hand without thinking about it. She froze as though hit by lightning, a black web spreading through the veins of her hand, snapping clear as Pentaghast finally broke the connection. She slowly became aware that he was calling her some very uncomplimentary things, and that Eregost was nudging her shoulder.

"She...is mine." Ceryabeth interrupted Casper's tirade. "And if you touch her again, I'll break your demon-raising hand right off, got it?" She didn't wait for an answer but called over her shoulder, "Eregost, follow!" The clip-clop of the reanimated horse's hooves followed her out.

The Qunari...what was his name? Peloquin?...stood with his back against a tree, massive arms crossed over his chest and a smile on his face. "Something to say?" Ceyrabeth snapped at him. The smile got wider, but he raised his hands and shook his head in the negative.

Ceyrabeth didn't stop until she reached the river. She paced, fuming, furious at herself as she watched Eregost crop the tender shoots of grass at the water's edge. It was the next thing to a _demon_ , for Maker's sake! An abomination. She was trained to _end_ abominations, not adopt them. Pentaghast would have even done the work for her and she just...

Something hit her lightly in the back. She whirled around....and saw no one, nothing except a tiny glimmer of gold at her feet. Beth gingerly picked it up. She immediately recognized the symbol on the wrapper as belonging to one of the premier confectioners in Orlais.  Another little gold missile hit her leg then tumbled onto the ground next to her. She sighed, "You can come out." She addressed the trees.

"You're sure, Beth?" Keiran popped his head out of the branches. "You'll eat the chocolate? Not bite my head off?"

"Positive."

The young former Templar looked good, she noted as he dropped athletically to the ground. The diverse population of the Legion was doing him some benefit- he was already walking with more confidence. He didn't even flinch when Eregost turned her open side to him, simply sat on the hill and patted the grass next to him. She sat beside him with a huff that just narrowly escaped being a sigh.

The sat in silence for a minute, just watching the camp break and condense.

"Andrei said that you're the reason for the quick breakdown." Keiran said casually. "Said they move efficiently, but this is the fastest they've ever broken camp."

"Yes, well, if this Andrei has an issue with the way..."

Keiran popped a chocolate into her protesting mouth with the ease of former practice. "You promised."

Ceyrabeth bit down with a roll of her sable eyes and felt her anger drain as the tart sweetness of raspberry flooded her tongue. Her very favorite, and almost impossible to find in Ferelden. "Did you save these all the way from Val Chevin?"

Keiran nodded with a grin, "For emergencies."

They watched the river for a moment. "So," Keiran finally said casually, "You decided to keep Eregost huh?"

"Yes, I decided to keep the _free_ horse that can run for days without needing food or drink. Problems?" Ceyrabeth asked coolly.

Keiran shook his head with a smile. "I'll bet the Captain was happy about it."

"He doesn't know yet."

"He knows." Keiran stated with conviction.

"Speaking of the Captain Who Knows," Ceyrabeth and Keiran whirled around at Pellinore's mildly amused statement. "He requests that you three," He swept his arm to include Eregost, "rejoin him at your earliest opportunity. The Darkspawn are almost upon us." Pellinore didn't seem overly worried about slavering hoards descending upon them- unsurprising in her opinion, considering what dwelled in the camp- but Keiran had turned a very telling shade of pale.

"I should grab my mount," The young man managed.

"I'll come with you," Ceyrabeth assured him. Soon they found themselves heading back toward the four semi-permanent shelters that housed the Legion's mounts. Surprisingly, there was a large crowd around the shelters- _last minute stragglers_ , she thought. And then, a piercing shriek froze the blood in her veins. She and Keiran both went for their blades.

"What in the name of the Maker was that?!" Keiran managed to choke out. Slowly the assembled ranks parted to make way for Sul. He was astride a great reptilian beast, its leather hide bone white and heavily scarred. Its’ eyes were bright pink and it emitted a strange cackling purr as it peered at the people around it.

"That," Ceyrabeth said with strange wonder coloring her voice as her sword arm dropped, seemingly without her noticing. "Is a dracolisk!”

“It is indeed,” Sul replied.  He was wearing what appeared to be armored robes: layers of wool and pale leather accented with mail and plates of dark metal split up the center to accommodate riding.

“What breed is it?” She asked, still riveted on the beast.

“A Tevinter Breed deemed too unruly to be made into proper mounts.”

The Dracolisk took that opportunity to raise its’ head and emit another ear-piercing shriek that caused Ceyrabeth’s teeth to rattle.

“The Basking Longma?”  The elven woman asked as soon as her ears stopped ringing.

“The same,” Sul patted the creature on the neck. It gave another cackle purr. “They are not a well-known species.  You’re very well informed lieutenant.”

Ceyrabeth felt heat rush to her cheeks and she quickly averted her gaze, “As I’ve mentioned, I used to read a lot when I was young. A chantry brother named Genitivi set up a research station in Kirkwall and gave me access to his library in exchange for running his errands,” She coughed once and affixed a glare on her face to banish the blush from her features, “What? You don’t have a monopoly on reading.”

One dark eyebrow lifted slightly in a now-familiar gesture of interest, “I have acquired all of Brother Genitivi’s works and contributed to a few as well.  He is an insightful man.”

Quietly relieved that she was no longer blushing madly, Ceyrabeth gestured at the beast, “What’s his name?”

“Her name,” Sul corrected gently, “Is Banshee”

Keiran frowned up at the creature, “Banshee?   What does that mean?”

“It’s a very old word, from a time long before the Ancient Age.”

“There’s nothing before the Ancient Age,” He said confused.

“That depends entirely on who you’re asking.  Now, report to your unit soldier.”

Keiran immediately stiffened and gave a crisp salute, “Yes, Serah!”

“For the record,” Ceyrabeth commented sourly, watching her young friend go, “He’s never saluted me.”

“All in good time, Lieutenant.”

“Yes sir.” Ceyrabeth straightened and also saluted. “Have I orders as well, sir?”

“Shadow Lieutenant Pellinore for now,” Sul nodded as Pellinore detached himself from the crowd on Sul’s right. The two elves exchanged nods. “There is much for you to learn.”

“Sir.” Beth acknowledged. Pellinore seemed a decent sort. She could at least be grateful that she wasn’t taking her orders from the foppish Qunari or berserker elf. Sul nudged his mount forward and nodded to someone she couldn’t see. A raucous horn sounded along with the command to “Move out!”

The words were picked up and reechoed until they were lost in a thunder of hooves and wagon wheels.

 


	9. Introductions and Farewells

“The Captain’s given the order to halt camp.”

“Thank Blessed Andraste.” Ceyrabeth breathed at Pellinore’s words. She shifted in the saddle, grimaced. It felt like her saddle sores had saddle sores. Over the last weeks, the Legion had effectively split with the slower riders- such as the heavy fighters- defending against darkspawn stragglers from behind and the faster scouting ahead and running interference for those refugees unfortunate enough to still be on the road. In classic military formation, both groups were responsible for protecting those in the middle- women, children, the wounded, and the non-combatants. Ceyrabeth had already pulled her share of guard and patrol duty, finding to her surprise that she enjoyed the people she worked with even though they had little time for idle chit-chat. Captain Sul pushed the pace hard and no one could blame him; hard travel was much preferred to being consumed by the Hoard.

But the reports coming in from the southern arm had gotten more and more favorable the farther north they went. It was time to re-form. Ceyrabeth fully expected, as one of the newest recruits, to be doing the grunt work inevitable in making a large camp. So when Sul called her into the newly pitched Command Tent, she was surprised to have him offer her a seat. Latrine duty didn’t really require much except a ‘go dig there’ and certainly the Captain didn’t need to be the one giving _that_ order.

She had politely refused a glass of wine and was watching him survey her over the rim of his own cup. “May I be of assistance, Captain?” She finally asked.

“Yes.” Sul set his glass down. “A mission has come up that you are…uniquely suited for, Lieutenant. Tell me how much you know about the Lake Calenhad Circle.”

“Umm,” Ceyrabeth had to think; she had been outside the circles for a long time. “Its proper name is Kinloch Hold. The current First Enchanter’s name is Irving, with Knight-Commander Greagoir commanding the Templars. They’ve worked together for a long time- Kinloch is widely considered to be one of the most stable Circles in Ferelden.”

“It appears that is no longer the case. Greagoir has called for the Rite of Annulment.”

“What?!’ She shot to her feet. “Why?!” Sul waved her back down. She sat reluctantly on the edge of her seat.

“You needn't worry about the particulars, Lieutenant. Your mission will be to delay the Rite.”

“….excuse me?”

Sul just looked at her.

She shook her head in adamant denial. “Knight-Commander Greagoir is a legend! We literally learn about him in training. He’s considered the paragon of what a Templar should be. If he’s calling for the Rite, then there must be a damn good reason!”

“I imagine so. The Grey Wardens we have been aiding are en route. They need the alliance of both Templars and Mages far more than we do.”

Ceyrabeth frowned pensively. “You want them to solve the ‘problem’ so that Greagoir and Irving owe them.”

“Precisely. Negotiations may be difficult with no one to negotiate with, however.”

Ceyrabeth nodded reluctantly.  The logic was unassailable. “Yes, Captain. Will I be going on this mission alone?”

“No, Lieutenant.” Sul motioned to Atiya, who had been standing like a shadow behind him and she immediately exited the tent. “I have a team in mind for you.”

A few moments later, a knock sounded from outside. “Enter,” He turned his attention back to her “I trust you’ll have no trouble working together, Lieutenant?”

Ceyrabeth was already on her feet and had Mathias tightly in her embrace, her professional demeanor completely crumbled in the face of sheer joy. She turned to Tregan and pulled him in too. “How…when…?!”

“We turned back as soon as we finished evacuating Lothering.” Tregan grinned at her exuberant greeting. “Quin wouldn’t come, but I tracked the Legion and we ran into one of the southern cells. At first we thought we’d be mounting a rescue mission for you and Keiran, but we started listening to the soldiers and…” Tregan motioned to his and Mathias’ uniforms, which were the standard black of all Legion soldiers. “The Captain was good enough to accept our allegiance.”

Ceyrabeth noticed Keiran and Arryn standing by the door. Both were wearing giant grins. “You knew!”

“Sure.” Keiran replied. “We wanted to surprise you. How’d we do?”

“Impeccably.” Ceyrabeth turned to Sul, placed her fist over her heart with a bow. “Thank you, Captain.”

He accepted her thanks with a nod of his head and Ceyrabeth could swear she saw a hint of a smile. “Have you any objections to my choices, Ser Ceyrabeth?”

Her answering smile flashed out again. It made her seem younger, took the weight of hard years off her face for a brief moment. “None, sir.”

“Excellent. See Lieutenant Pellinore for your requisition orders.”

“Yes, Captain!” Ceyrabeth snapped to attention, and Keiran, Mathias, Tregan, and- after a hesitating second- Arryn all did as well. “For the Legion.” It was her gift back to Sul; a declaration of a loyalty that had been nebulous until then.

“For the Legion.” He replied. She saluted and turned sharply, her team following her out of the tent.

.:*:.

“That’s him,”

Mathias’ whisper came to Ceyrabeth’s ears from off to her right. They sat at the dinner table of a rough but clean inn in the Ferelden town of Corbray. Nonchalantly, she cut into an apple with her dagger and brought a piece to her mouth before turning around and crossing her legs casually. She immediately found the subject of the whisper; a tall, handsome man with blonde hair pulled into a half-tail. “You’re sure?”

“Believe me, I know Anders.” Mat replied with a roll of his eyes. “He used to give us a right proper time when I was stationed at Kinloch. Had to watch him like a hawk or he’d find some way to try to escape. He actually managed it seven times…well, eight if you count this one.”

“He sounds like he’d be very helpful.” Ceyrabeth replied. Along with arms, armor and travel rations, Captain Sul had thoughtfully provided dossiers on people who may be helpful in case they needed a hand. The first portion of their mission had gone off without a hitch but that was _before_ Keiran had been recognized in a stroke of insanely bad luck. It was only a matter of time before the local Templars descended on them in a shrieking hoard out for his ‘traitorous blood’. Keiran was currently lying low, but they desperately needed someone who knew both the lay of the land and the local faces.

Ceyrabeth watched Anders move about the inn, stopping here and there to chat with a villager. He seemed to be well-liked, if the smiles and nods directed at him were any indication. For a moment, Ceyrabeth thought about going up and asking to speak to him in private, but then she rejected the idea. He was going to be cautious, over-watchful. “You said he was a healer?”

“Yes,” Mathias nodded. “At least he was back at Kinloch…Beth!”

Ceyrabeth cried out in pain as her dagger clattered to the floor, its edge now stained with blood. _Her_ blood, point of fact.  She had grasped the blade and drawn it across her palm hard enough to leave a gaping wound. Anders looked around at the unmistakable sound of distress. Mathias had removed his handkerchief and was pressing it against her hand before Anders could make his way over. He was careful to keep his head down, but Anders didn’t even notice him.

“What happened? Are you alright?”  
            “I…it was on the bench.” She breathed, doing a very convincing approximation of a maid in distress. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Let’s see.” Anders took her hand, examined it carefully. “You’re going to need stitches.” He informed her. “Were you using this dagger to cut this?” He gestured to her half eaten dinner. She nodded hesitantly. “You don’t want to risk blood poisoning. Follow me.”

“Are you a leech?” She asked, using the peasant’s term for one who tended wounds. Anders smiled at her.

“Of a sort.”

He led her up to his room, gesturing her to the chair before removing a small sewing kit and bottle. “This’ll sting,” Anders warned her as he poured a splash of the liquid onto her palm. It did sting but much less than she expected. Anders still cradled her hand in his as he began sewing the wound, which was also less painful than expected, and she focused in. The lyrium in her blood reached for the lyrium in his- a strange sensation that was not completely able to be explained by someone who wasn’t a Templar- and she realized that he was slowly healing her hand, the stitching just a blind for his real actions.

“Thank you,” She said sincerely as he bound the freshly cleaned and stitched hand in a length of new bandage. “How can I repay you?”

“You can stay right there. _Manere!_ ”

Ceyrabeth recognized the mage’s spell to paralyze a split second before it hit her. Her limbs seized up and she went rigid in her chair. “Sorry,” Anders moved about the room, rapidly stuffing things into a small bag. “I know you’re not a Templar, but your friend…”

But Anders had made a serious mistake; he had only paralyzed her from the neck down.

“ _Eluo!”_ Ceyrabeth spoke the command to cleanse magic and her limbs immediately unseized. Before Anders could react, she had tackled him to his bed. Electricity blazed across his skin but she was expecting it. Most mages immediately thought electricity as defense.

“ _Confuto!”_ Anders yelped in dismay as his magic abruptly ceased.

He heaved her off bodily, desperation giving him strength.

Ceyrabeth threw herself forward and grasped his ankle, tugging him down with an almighty crash. “Anders!”

“You won’t take me back!” He kicked at her once, twice and by sheer blind luck he caught her in the forehead. The skin split and blood poured into her left eye. He scrambled up once more and made for the door.

“Just listen!” She roared, pouncing on his back. They slammed into a wall with crushing force. “I’m not...a…Templar!”

“Those sure as the Void _feel_ like Templar abilities!” Anders slammed her into the wall again. She gritted her teeth. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but he was really giving her no choice. She focused on the lyrium in her blood, felt it rush through her muscles in a release that felt almost like ecstasy.  She tangled her fingers in Anders’ hair with both hands and, dropping her weight, she wrenched back on his head. He slammed to the floor and tried to roll but Beth was already straddling his chest. Her fist connected across his face with the force of a hammer, backed by an ability that her trainers called Righteous Strike. It not only caused physical pain, but drained a mage’s mana reserves. His hands shot up, tried to block her, tried to strike back but it was no use.  

Mathias burst through the door just in time to see Ceyrabeth roll off of Anders’ chest. The mage was bleeding from his nose and a split lip, and was just lying dazed on the floor. “Maker’s Mercy!” He exclaimed as he took in the scene.

“He’s been Silenced,” Ceyrabeth told him, rummaging for something to staunch the flow of blood from her head. She eventually found a towel and pressed it to the wound. “I didn’t want to but he paralyzed me. Seems you were recognized after all. Help me get him onto the bed.”

 She and Mathias pulled him as carefully as possible onto the mattress. Mathias rummaged around in Anders’ healing bag until he came up with a greenish powder. “Powdered Elfroot. Excellent.” He poured half of the small paper packet into a cup of water and drained it into Anders’ mouth sip by sip. The young mage’s eyes fluttered, then opened.

“Anders, can you hear me?”  Ceyrabeth asked gently doing her best to appear as anything other than a terrifying Templar bound to drag him back in chains.

Anders side-eyed her warily and nodded, wincing. “I’m going to dispel the Silence.” Ceyrabeth told him. Mathias’ eyes flew to her face, but he didn’t object. “We just need you to listen. Please.”

She whispered the counter to the Confuto ability and Anders sighed in relief. “Hi, Mathias.”

Mat nodded at him with a sheepish smile, “It’s been a long time, Anders. Sorry if we scared you.”

Anders shrugged. “Where did you learn all that?” He asked Ceyrabeth curiously. “You’re an elf.”

 “It’s a long story.” She sat next to him on the bed. “Short version: I posed as human for a lot of years to train as a Templar.” Ceyrabeth started talking quickly, just trying to get the words out before he decided to set her on fire. “We,” She indicated herself and Mathias, “along with two more of our Brothers, defected after Ostagar. Now, we’re trying to halt a Rite of Annulment against the Kinloch Circle…”

“Kinloch?!”

“Yes. My friend, Keiran Ehingen, was recognized by someone on the road and it’s only a matter of time before the Templars come in force. Mathias heard your name in town and we thought you might help us. The word is that you’re good at escaping.” Anders smiled a little at that, but Beth was too much in earnest. “Anders, please. They’ll kill him.”

“I’ve seen Ser Keiran’s wanted posters.” Anders tapped his index finger against his chin. “And now that I think about it, I’ve seen _yours_ too. Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin; Wanted for Treason and Defection.”

“It’s pronounced see _-ra-beth,_ not _say-ra-beth,_ but yes. That’s me.”

Anders considered. “If I _were_ to help you, and I’m not saying I will…what’s in it for me?”

“Freedom.” Beth said promptly. “The man we work for, the one that’s stopping the Rite…he’s brilliant. You can stay with us and I promise you you’ll never have to even _consider_ if there’s a Templar nearby for the rest of your life. He has already given safe haven to quite a few mages, including one from the Starkhaven massacre. OR, if you want to disappear, start over entirely, you will have that option. Assistance given and no questions asked.”

“What in the Void is going on up here?” The proprietress of the inn burst through the door. _A little behind,_ Beth thought cynically. She stiffened as Anders put his arm around her before flashing a charming smile at the woman.

“Sorry, Stella. My girlfriend got a little…excited.” Ceyrabeth glanced sharply at him before plastering a wide smile on her face and winking at the shell-shocked Stella.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ”

“You don’t have to worry. Mat will patch me up. Thanks for checking in.” Mathias gently herded the woman out the door and shut it firmly. Anders chuckled at the expression on Ceyrabeth’s face. “You can’t say you didn’t deserve it.”

“We’re even then.” She replied.

“For now.” Anders ran his hands through his hair, retied it. “Alright. I’ll help you.”  

.:*:.

“ _This_ is where your contact lives?”

“You aren’t a snob are you Ceyrabeth?” Anders asked with only a trace of mockery. “Because I don’t work with snobs.”

Ceyrabeth heaved a sigh and looked at Mathias. She had wanted to get Arryn and Tregan, but Anders had adamantly vetoed the idea. He was already outnumbered, he said. So Ceyrabeth had yielded.

She sincerely wished she hadn’t when she heard the ungodly yowls coming from inside the hovel.

They burst through the door; both Ex-Templars had their weapons drawn. “Where’s Gaetano?!” Anders demanded of the terrified woman cowering by the fireplace. She just pointed a trembling finger toward the back.

They charged back…and stopped cold. An elderly elven man lay firmly tied to the bed while a tall, dusky-skinned human man stood near the window, fiddling with a crystal cube that was casting strange shadows on the prone figure. “That was close…” The human muttered. “How about…this?”

The shadow changed and the elf screamed. “Ah! There it is.”

“What are you doing to that man?!” Ceyrabeth demanded. The human glanced up briefly.

“Anders! Welcome back.”

“Please my lady, don’t let him hurt me anymore!” The old man turned his head, tears streaking down his face. Ceyrabeth’s expression hardened and she leveled her sword at the human.

“Step away from him. _Now!_ ”

“Look, precious, I don’t have time for…” The human turned his exasperated attention to Ceyrabeth…and in that split second, a wave of magic lashed out that sent them all flying.

Ceyrabeth reacted instinctively. “Shield!” Blue light shimmered around herself, Anders and Mathias but she was disgusted to find that it was weak. She had used too much energy trying to subdue Anders.

Mathias shook his head, trying to clear it., “ _Con_ \--” He started, but the human picked himself back up.

“Don’t worry about that Templar nonsense,” He said contemptuously as he picked himself back up and climbed on the bed. 

Ceyrabeth took note of his features, fine-boned with short dark hair and a thin mustache along with his accent marked him as Rivani 

He removed a vial started to shake a clear substance onto the elf, who screamed earsplittingly with each drop on his skin.  

“What’s he doing? What is that?” Ceyrabeth asked Anders doing her best to tune out the ungodly shrieking and the memories of the monstrosity Chirak it brought oozing to the surface of her mind.

“It’s holy water; sanctified waters from a sacred well that—Look, I’ve got no interest in explaining all this to you so just shut up and stay out of the way.”

“Holy…” Then it clicked. “The man is possessed!”  
            “Give the girl a prize!” The dusky man drawled. He hopped off the bed, braced his arm on the headboard. “You hear that?” He asked the elven man conversationally. “You’re possessed. Now, I knew that and you knew that. It’s time to hear though which demon you actually are. Well?”

The elf hissed something at him that Ceyrabeth didn’t understand but seemed to make total sense to the human. “Now, now.” He admonished. “There are ladies present.” And he tipped half the bottle of holy water onto the possessed man’s head. The creature hissed and screamed, pulling at ropes that Ceyrabeth devoutly hoped were well tied. “Try again?”

The elf glared at him with baleful eyes. “Of course, you want to do it the hard way.” The human withdrew a knife from his belt. It gleamed unusually bright even in the muted light. “You learn anatomy in Templar school?”

Ceyrabeth took a second to realize that he was talking to her. “Of course.”

“Great. There’s this fantastic little nerve cluster in the shoulder…hurts like all the Void if you hit it just right.”  He offered her the blade’s hilt. “Like to demonstrate?”

“No!”

“Templars,” The man rolled his eyes. “Never want to get their hands dirty.” And with that, he yanked the elf’s arm out straight and plunged the knife deep into the joint of the elf’s neck and shoulder.  Smoke rolled off the wound as the man howled in agony. “Well?”

“Hux…Huxenlem!!”

“Of course, Huxenlem!.” The man withdrew the knife and the demon sagged back. “Now, was that so hard?”

“One of the Forbidden Ones?” Ceyrabeth asked.

He looked at the elf and snorted, “You’re remarkably well informed for a Templar.”

“ _Former_ Templar,” She corrected frostily.

“Uh-huh, sure.  Anyhow he’s a servant of one of the Six and the best cellmates a man could ask for,” The human replied caustically. “Ok, Huxy. Time to go.”

The effect was instantaneous. The elf strained against his bonds with the strength of the desperate and another wave of dark magic lashed out. It impacted against Ceyrabeth’s shield and they staggered, but the shield held. This time, Mathias was able to activate Silence, and it gave the human just enough time to finish fiddling with his cube. The elf screamed and they all could hear the difference; this was not the screams of the damned, but of a mortal being in excruciating pain. The human man ripped the shirt away from the elf’s chest.

His ribs were breaking through his flesh, leaving multiple puncture wounds. Ceyrabeth and Mathias both readied their blades as they saw the area of the man’s stomach roil with the terrifying visage of the demon within. “Got it!” The human roared and placed the cube directly into the worst of the wounds. One more agonized scream, a blinding flash of light…

….and then it was over. Mathias, at Ceyrabeth’s nod, rushed to the elderly elf. “He’s still breathing.” He informed her.

“Good.”

“Yes, rumpy-pumpy triumph.” The human man said breathlessly. He was brushing pieces of ash off his clothes as he reached over to retrieve the crystal cube, which was no longer clear but smoky grey and covered in blood. “Anders, sweetness, go and get the woman would you?”

Anders obeyed. Ceyrabeth pulled the sheet of the bed over the elf’s chest just in time; nobody needed to see that, least of all what she assumed was the man’s wife. “OK, so here’s the rub.” The human started in as soon as the woman entered the room. “Demon’s out, grandpa’s alive. I don’t work for free. What do you have?”

“What does she…?” Ceyrabeth asked, too shocked to be angry.

“Lucre. Recompense. Remuneration. _Payment,_ precious.” He rolled his eyes at her. “I saw a girl earlier. Bring her in.”

The old woman scurried out as Ceyrabeth worked on trying to form words. She was back before Beth could say a thing, towing a doe-eyed slip of a girl behind her. The dusky-skinned human surveyed the girl critically. “No tits, even for an elf.” He commented. Then, he casually reached out and patted her groin. Ceyrabeth suddenly and explosively found words.

“Get your hands off her immediately!” She roared, placing herself between man and girl.

“No need to breathe fire,” The human replied. “If I wanted veal, I’d head over to the tavern. I like a little thatch on my roof if you know what I mean. Besides,” He looked over Ceyrabeth’s shoulder to the girl, who was now trembling, and sighed. “I’ve had all the fear I feel like dealing with for now.” He re-focused on Beth. “What about you, precious? You look reasonably shapely of breast and firm of thigh. No? Too bad. Alcohol, then.”

“We…we have none, sir.” The old woman informed him tremulously.

“Andraste’s saggy tits!” The human expostulated. “Is it too damn much to ask for a cup of tea? No? Well then, go make it and take your babe in arms with you!” Both women hurried out the door. Ceyrabeth slammed both her palms into the man’s chest, sending him reeling back. “Hey! Mind the goods!”

“You…you pig!” She spat out. “Knave! Warped, fool-born Void rotter! Who do you think you are…?!”

“Gaetano, meet Ceyrabeth Vallorin. Ceyrabeth, this is my contact Gaetano.” Anders interjected dryly.

“You _cannot_ be serious…!”

“’Fraid so, precious.” Gaetano sent her a charming smile that made her want to punch all of his perfectly straight teeth back into his head.

“Don’t call me precious!” Ceyrabeth shook her head. “No. Not happening.” She told Anders. “I will slit my _own_ throat before I will work with this man.”

“Maybe we should take care of the person who just suffered life threatening injury before we work out any other arrangements,” They all looked over at Mathias’s sharp words. He had torn a blanket into strips and was working to staunch the old man’s bleeding wounds.

Anders hurried over to his side, looking properly abashed, “Here, let me.” The healer reached his arms out over the man and he was suddenly bathed in gentle, blue light. The ribs reset themselves before their eyes, wounds knit cleanly, and some of the gray receded from the man’s features. He even breathed more strongly.

“Ok, I’m going to pretend for a second that I care why you’re here.” Gaetano said to Ceyrabeth as they watched Anders work.

“I was going to ask for your help. Now, I think I’d rather feed myself to an archdemon.”

“Feisty. I love feisty. Who’s in trouble?” She side-eyed him. “I know your name. It’s plastered all over the wanted posters. But you’re moving around freely. So, it must be someone else.”

“My comrade, Keiran.”

“Ah. Keiran Ehingen? Between the two of you, the reward is…”

Ceyrabeth grit her teeth, “Your head will adorn a central place on my wall before I let you…”

“Your tea, sir.”

Gaetano took the rough mug from the old woman’s hands and sipped. “Finally. Something good. Why are you with Anders?”

“Because we thought he would help us get out of the city.”

“Help….Templars?” Gaetano hooted, “By the by, however _did_ you learn those abilities? I imagine your lovely pointed ears and distinct lack of curves gave you some trouble.”

“Less than you’d expect.”

“So…you ARE a Templar raised and trained then? Vows to the Maker, vigils, all that?”. Gaetano pursed his full lips. “But not anymore?”

Beth didn’t see how it would matter but she nodded ,“No, not anymore.”

“Who are you working for now?”

“Why in the Void should I tell you that?”

“Because you need me.”

“Like I need a rotting hole in my chest…”

“Come on, precious. Indulge me a little, and I might just give a little back.” Gaetano grinned. “On my honor.”

“Fine. Have you heard of a group called the Phoenix Legion?” Ceyrabeth felt the change in Gaetano the second the words left her mouth. His expression became darker, colder.

“You work for Drachaen Sul?”

“He’s our Captain, yes.”

“I can’t believe that Tainted bastard is still alive.”

            Ceyrabeth bristled. “I’ll thank you not to speak of him with that tone. The Captain is professional, efficient and considerate….unlike some I could mention.”

            “He’s got you dancing to his tune sure and certain.” Gaetano’s lip curled. “He always was good at swaying the faithful into breaking their vows.”

            “How dare you…!” She spat, “I won’t listen to you a second longer. I would rather throw myself to the Darkspawn than work with you…you…”

            “Ceyrabeth!” Mathias, who had been standing at the window, beckoned her over.

 Ceyrabeth moved quickly to his side and felt her heart seize. A heavy cart pulled by a pair of speckled drays rattled by the hovel, two guards in heavy armor riding atop behind the horses. And behind its chained and barred rear door…

            “Arryn…”  Ceyrabeth breathed. She had just caught the young mage’s face as they passed. If Arryn had been caught, odds were good that Keiran and Tregan had also been taken prisoner…or worse.

            A heavy weight on her shoulder made her look around. Gaetano was leaning against her, body tight against her side. He was grinning all over his handsome face. “So…what was that you were saying about Darkspawn?”

.:*:.

“Just so we’re clear,” Ceyrabeth couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror. The dress she had been forced into mortified her life out; cheap silk and too much skin. “I’m going to kill you as soon as your usefulness has run out.” Mathias and Anders were both affecting interest in other points nowhere near her, like true gentlemen, but Gaetano had no such qualms; his eyes took her in from full, painted lips to high heeled shoes.

            “Oh, you’re going to have to work on your sweet talk if you want to convince the guards that you’re the soiled dove they’ve been waiting for.” Gaetano laughed.

            “Why are we not just breaking the door down again?” Ceyrabeth asked.

            “Hey, you want to charge into a prison full of guards, be my guest…”

            “Because you want to rescue your friends, not kill a whole bunch of people.” Anders replied.

“And why me?”

            “Because the sad truth is that not everyone is as equal opportunity as I am,” Gaetano reached to fix a bow on Ceyrabeth’s hip; she knocked his hand away with a glare. “These boys are all about their girlies. And lucky for you, they’ve got a thing for pointy ears. Must be that whole subservience thing…’yes, master, no master’…”

“You’ve got that blade, right?” Mathias interjected.             Ceyrabeth patted her thigh. The strangely bright blade that Gaetano had used on the demon was the one thing that gave her any sort of comfort. It felt strange against her skin; colder than a normal blade. “Let’s go then. Better now than never.”

On the walk to the prison, Gaetano grasped Ceyrabeth’s arm. “Now, you’re sure you can take care of the two at the doors? Because we’re not going to be charging in to save your skin, so if you get pinned down or whatever...”

She just rolled her eyes at him, “I’m not completely helpless.”

“Sure, precious.” He made a gesture to Mathias and Anders, who immediately turned to the right. They would meet up with them after she and Gaetano were inside. “Alright,” He whispered, “Now’s the time to bat those pretty eyes. Tits out. Howdy, gents!”

They had reached the prison. “Gaetano! What have you got for us tonight?” One of the guards hailed him.

“Boys, meet Lorelei. Brand new skin, not even in rotation yet.” Ceyrabeth, newly christened Lorelei, felt her cheeks flush but she swept her eyes up, blinking her lashes at them in a motion that felt ridiculously coquettish.

“Lorelei,” The younger of the two asked, “Like the song?”

“And, oh, will she make you sing Ser Brandon.” The boy, he couldn’t have been much more than eighteen, flushed to the roots of his blonde hair. Gaetano saw and immediately capitalized. “What’s this I see? Blushing like the most vestal Chantry maiden I’ve ever seen! Could it be….a _virgin_ I see before me?! Oh, oh my sweet Lorelei,” He braced one hand on her shoulder, put one hand over his heart. “Go and make this boy a man, I beg you!”

Ceyrabeth just barely managed to not roll her eyes again as she followed a drooping Ser Brandon into the prison. They stopped in an empty block of cells near the entrance; he still couldn’t manage to look her in the eye. “Look, I’m sorry, I’m just not…”

But the woman was already moving. She planted his forehead squarely into the iron bars and Ser Brandon was down. She tied his hands and feet together and relieved him of his keys before skimming the prison log. Beth sighed in relief when she saw Tregan and Keiran’s names along with Arryn’s. “Block C.”

She sauntered back out through the door. “Back so soon?” Gaetano raised his eyebrow.

“You know boys,” Ceyrabeth let the Kirkwall accent she had spent years trying to rid herself of slip back into her voice. “A slip here, a squeeze there and pop!”

“I guarantee it won’t be slip, squeeze, pop with me girlie,” The other guard leered. “Where is the little bastard now?”

Beth glanced at Gaetano, thought fast. “I may have…left him a little dazed. He was having trouble with his legs.”

“I’ll go get him…”

“You know that you peddlers don’t go into the prison,” The guard said. “I’ll get him. You come with me, girl. I’m not wasting my time because some kid can’t control himself. I’ll fuck you on top of him if I have to.”

If looks could kill, the man would be not just dead but flayed alive. Luckily, in his haste to get through the door, he didn’t notice.

“There you are,” Gaetano said as Beth returned a second time. She was spattered in blood and carried a sword and small targe, plus another, taller sword and shield and a mage’s staff.  “He gave you a little more trouble than the kid?”

“No,” Was all Ceyrabeth said. She pursed her lips and whistled, and Mathias and Anders emerged from the corner of the building. Wordlessly she distributed the weapons and led them into the prison.

But as they passed Ser Brandon, who was just waking up, she found her voice. “You…” She smacked him none too gently across the cheek and he looked at her with wide eyes. “You are MUCH too nice of a boy to listen to this idiot!” She flung her arm out to indicate his very battered comrade. “The next time something like this comes up, do yourself a favor and don’t do ridiculous things like _almost sleep with a woman you don’t know!_ Train hard, find better friends, and make your family proud! Don’t let _anyone_ bully you into _anything_! Got it?” The young man was gagged but he nodded. “Good. I’m going to leave you there. Start kicking up a fuss and you’ll end up like Ser Pig-Shit, am I perfectly clear?”

Another nod and Beth stalked away, Gaetano sniggering behind her. “By the Six…did you walk off the damn recruiting posters?”

“Shut up.” She muttered. Now that they were a force, they could afford to sacrifice silence for speed. “Knockouts only.” She commanded.  She had always been good with using her shield offensively, and all it really took was a quick feint and a well-placed shield bash to subdue the few guards they came across.

“Do you even need us?” Anders asked sometime later after the third guard fell.

“No,” Mathias answered for him. “Just stay out of her way. It always worked for me.”

“Lazy,” Ceyrabeth muttered. She unlocked a heavy wooden door. “This should be it.”

“Beth!” Arryn was the first to notice her. He lurched up to the bars, frowning through a split lip. Tregan joined him, a black eye blooming spectacularly across his pale face and his arm in a makeshift sling. “Mat!”

“Nice to see you didn’t make it totally easy on them,” Mathias took in their injuries.

“You have to go get Keiran!” Arryn interrupted. “The Templars just took him!”

“Where?” Ceyrabeth asked him.  Arryn pointed out the far door. “Mathias, see to Tregan.” Ceyrabeth freed them before wrenching open the door, Anders and Arryn hot on her heels. She heard their voices before she saw them; they were discussing something that made her stop in her tracks.

“Why in the Void did they send that thing _here_? Why didn’t they send it by bird straight to Kinloch?”

“You don’t send a Rite of Annulment by bird, you idiot! What happens if they get shot down? It’s hand to hand from Revered Mother to Templar until it gets where its’ going.”

“But why is it _here_ in the ass end of nowhere?”

“I dunno. Some problems along the line I guess. We have to take it up to the Chantry when we’re done with our pal here.”

The Rite. The actual Kinloch Rite of Annulment was not two feet beyond that door. “Anders…Arryn…” She hissed. “For love of the Maker, stay behind me.”

“Shield,” Anders replied, and a violet dome shimmered up and around them. Ceyrabeth nodded her thanks…and kicked open the door with a bloodcurdling screech. Between Ceyrabeth’s rapid assault, Arryn’s shadow creatures and Anders sucking their life out, the two Templars were completely overwhelmed.  

Keiran was strapped to a table, battered and bloody but alive. “Hey,” He slurred up at Ceyrabeth as she moved to release him. “You look great.”

“Don’t you even start.” She told him.

Anders stepped up, looked into Keiran’s eyes, “A concussion. I should have _just_ enough mana to help.”

“Arryn, find the Rite,” Ceyrabeth commanded and the young mage immediately obeyed, coming up with a very official looking piece of paper from the older Templar’s belt pouch. Ceyrabeth took it…and handed it to Anders. He cocked his head at her. “I thought you might like to do the honors.”

Understanding flooded Anders’ gaze and suddenly the Rite disintegrated with blinding, white-hot flashfire. He spat into the ashes on the floor.

“So, I really hate to rush you…” Gaetano burst in, holding something that smoked and hissed firmly wrapped in a cloth. “But we gotta stick this somewhere NOW or we’re gonna have a pissed off demon on our arses!”

“And you didn’t know this before?!” Ceyrabeth slung Keiran’s arm around her shoulder and hauled him off the table.

“Well, excuse me, precious!” Gaetano shot back. “There wasn’t enough sunlight when I sealed him!” He moved to one of the downed Templars and opened the cloth to reveal the crystal cube. It was no longer clear but black as pitch with flickers of violet lighting striking angrily inside.

“What are you doing?!”

“Deporting the demon!”

“Not them!!” Ceyrabeth grabbed the cube from him. Gaetano went to protest…and caught sight of her hand. The left was normal but the right was webbed with black lines. She took off running toward the entrance, Gaetano following close behind.

           “Him!” Ceyrabeth commanded, pointing at the knight she had dubbed Ser Pig-Shit.

“Fine!” Gaetano took the cube from her again, started manipulating the symbols on the side.  “Make me an entrance!”

“What?!”

“The blade, the blade!” He yelled.  “Use the bloody blade! NOW!!”

Ceyrabeth didn't give herself time to think; she pulled the blade from the sheath on her thigh and plunged it into the knight’s belly. His eyes flew open, too surprised to even try to scream. Gaetano slammed the cube into the wound and backed far out of reach, “Get out of the way!” Ceyrabeth obeyed, dragging the terrified Ser Brandon with her. They watched in horror as Gaetano started chanting…then the ground below the frantic knight opened, roiling and seething with tendrils of black smoke that formed hands and dragged him into their embrace. Inch by inch, with the eerie sounds of Gaetano's chanting and the infernal wailing coming from the pit assaulting their ears, Ceyrabeth and Brandon watched the knight get dragged into the Void.

Ceyrabeth got the gag off Ser Brandon’s mouth just in time to watch him heave the contents of his stomach all over the prison floor.

“What in the Void happened to him?” Mat asked, but Ceyrabeth just shook her head. Gaetano cautiously approached the blackened circle where the knight had disappeared and retrieved the cube, which was crystal clear again.

“Whew, that was a close one!” He grinned.

Ceyrabeth stood, her hands shaking, and slammed him by his collar against a wall. “Get us…out of here… _now_.”

Gaetano held up his hands in a placating gesture, “Sure thing, precious. One safe exit, coming up.”

.:*:.

Lieutenant Pellinore watched the raven circle down from the sky.  It was one of the birds they sent with agents in the field, and unless he missed his guess, it held news of Ceyrabeth's mission. He had held some qualms about sending Ceyrabeth-especially with the other former Templars added in; could they be trusted to act against their brothers?- but he had kept his concerns to himself.  The Captain seemed to trust her and that was enough for Pellinore. As he skimmed the note, which was two lines on a piece of paper in a slanted, feminine hand- _Rite entirely halted…leaving Corbray immediately. C.-_ he found himself smiling.

He reported the letter to the Captain immediately. “Adjusting for distance and the speed of the raven, if she left Corbray three days ago, her team should be back tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Pellinore couldn’t tell if the Captain was pleased or not from his tone, but that was no real surprise. “I wish to see Lieutenant Vallorin the moment she arrives back in camp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what of the rest of the army?”

“All present and accounted for, Captain.” Pellinore’s was the last satellite of the Legion to check in, point of fact; the army was once again whole. Now, they could begin the not-insignificant task of setting permanent camp.

Sul nodded his approval, “Thank you, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“Yes sir,” He spun on his heel and departed. Fenris took that opportunity to emerge from behind the tent’s rear curtain, pulling at his new, unfamiliar armor, “Are you certain that this is entirely necessary?”

 “Does it not fit well?”

“It’s fine.  But are all these spikes actually useful?”

“It presents an image.  All of warfare is deception, Fenris. And a fearsome appearance can serve as preemptive measures.  It helps you avoid unnecessary confrontations and keep a lower profile, at least more so than open violence would.”

The elf frowned and looked down at the armor then back up at Sul, “So it…really makes me look fearsome?”

Sul smiled and nodded his assent.

Fenris frowned and peered past Sul at Tallis for confirmation.

“Oh definitely!” Tallis piped up, “Seriously, I have chills.”

“Really?”  Fenris considered and then nodded, “Well then, thank you Captain.”

“You’ll still need a weapon,” The blind man reached down by the table and with a heave dragged an enormous sword onto the table.  It landed on the hard wood with a definitive _thud!_

Fenris eyed the weapon incredulously, “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“It’s called ‘Lethendralis’,” The other man informed him, “Use it in good health.”

Fenris took hold of the massive weapon and heaved it off the table, “Maker, how am I supposed to fight with this thing?”

There was a sudden hum in the air and the armor on Fenris’s body began to glow faintly in a thin network of lines that pulsed in time with his lyrium markings.  Suddenly the sword weighed nothing at all. He heaved the blade up in one hand and began to twirl it experimentally.

“The armor acts as a conduit,” Sul explained, “Much like water conducts lightning, the metals in the armor and the way it is cut and etched corresponds with your markings and creates a sort of sympathetic resonance.”

“A what?!”

“It takes the power of your brands and turns them into raw power.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Tallis commented wryly.

Fenris looked stunned as the power of his markings allowed him to do the impossible, “How did you do this?” He breathed in wonder.

“With great care,” Sul gestured at him, “Put that down for a moment. I want to show you one other useful talent,” The blind man walked around the table to face the other man, stopping only to pick something off the ground, “You spent enough time in the company of Danarius to understand the relationship between lyrium and the Fade?”

“All too well,” Fenris growled.

“In sufficient quantities, lyrium would actually allow mages to enter the Fade.”

“Yes, yes,” The elf bristled, “So what?”

“So this.”

Sul thrust a large snake into the elf’s face.  Fenris shrieked and lashed out blindly…

…and his hand passed through the snake.  In a flash of blue light, the serpent went rigid and then completely limp.

“I see you’re still afraid of snakes,” Sul tossed the dead creature to the ground.

“Don’t you ever—,” Fenris couldn’t speak as he tried to catch his breath, “What in the name of the Void was that?!”

“That was awesome!” Tallis cried out

“Your lyrium markings, amplified by the armor allow portions of yourself to enter the fade for a few moments.  It makes a useful first strike weapon or interrogation.  In time, you’ll gain enough control to augment your combat skills: making yourself more resistant to magical assault or become more difficult to hit,” Sul smiled faintly. “A useful talent for a Tevinter Fugitive.  And helpful considering where you’ll be headed.”

“Yes,” The elf murmured, “You haven’t actually told me where I’m going.”

"Gwaren by way of the Brescilian Passage,” Sul replied.

“And what’s in this ‘Gwaren’ exactly?”

“A ship that will take you to Tantervale, in the Free Marches.  From there you’ll make your way to Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall,” Fenris scoffed, “You’re sending the former slave to the city known as ‘The City of Chains.’?”

“I’m sending the former slave of a magister to a city where there are enough Templars to give even Danarius pause.”

“….All right, fair point.”

“When you arrive in Kirkwall you’ll be meeting with one of my agents: a dwarf that goes by the name Anso.”

Fenris grinned ruefully, “Ah, some sort of master assassin or spy no doubt.”

“Anso possess a singular ability to appear completely ineffectual. He plays the role of a buffoon expertly.”

Fenris frowned, “Why would I need a buffoon?”

“There are many uses for a man who can appear much more foolish than he actually is.”

“That’s actually true,” Tallis pointed out.

“I’ll take your word on that,” Fenris replied skeptically.

“Take this as well,” Sul placed a heavy pouch in his hand, “That will cover all of your expenses in addition to procuring room and board in Kirkwall.”

Fenris gaped at the pouch; it contained more coin that he had ever seen in his entire life.   Then his train of thought caught up with him, “The Free Marches?” He spat.

“Is that a problem?” Sul asked politely.

“If the rest of the world turned into orange slime, I would still prefer that to living in the Marches,” His voice slipped into a bad Free Marcher’s accent “’Oy! I’m a bloody idiot with the brains and table manners of a sodding goat!’” He shook his head disdainfully.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” Tallis laughed.

“I’ll grant you that Kirkwall isn’t a bastion of intellectualism,” Sul admitted, “Rampant ignorance and barbarism seems to be symptomatic of pervasive Orlesian Chantry influence.”

“Huh?” Tallis said frowning.

“Stupid people are easier to control, especially if they’re too busy fighting each other to fight you,” Sul’s tone dripped with spite, “And the Orlesian Chantry does so love having control.”

“Oh.”

Fenris smiled and shook his head. ”You’ve chosen a worthy adversary, I’ll give you that much,” He cleared his throat, “Thank you for all your help.  Is there any way in which I may repay you generosity?”

“There is,” Sul said softly and held up a small vial filled with a purple liquid, “I need you to drink this before you go.”

Fenris frowned, “What is it?”

“It is an elixir, one that will erase a very specific set of memories.”

“Are you joking?” The elf exclaimed, “I already can’t remember any of my life before this damned markings and you would have me sacrifice more?”

“Yes, I would.”

Fenris scowled, “Which specific set of memories exactly?”

“This elixir will erase all recollection of a single individual from your memory.”

Fenris’s brow furrowed as he tentatively took the vial, “Which individual?” He asked as he held the bottle up to the light and peered within.

“Me.”

Fenris nearly dropped the bottle, “What?!” He asked aghast.

“The elixir will remove all memory of me from your mind.  To you, it will be as if we never met.”

“But wh—?”

“Danarius will not stop hunting you Fenris. We both know that his ego is too large to allow him to simply cut his losses,” Sul gestured at his people, caught in the bustle of setting camp. “If the unthinkable should happen, he will not hesitate to ravage your mind to uncover how you managed to escape,” Sul’s tone became regretful, “As much as our friendship means to me, the lives of those I am responsible for must take priority.”

For a long time, Fenris regarded the man before him and then the vial.  Sul held out his arm and Fenris grabbed his forearm without hesitation, “I have never known a truer friend, nor a nobler soul,” The elf rasped.

“Take heart, Fenris,” Sul offered him a wry smile, “I have it on good authority that Kirkwall is expecting the arrival of some truly exceptional people,” Sul and Fenris held onto each other.

“ _Astia valla femundis_ ,” Fenris whispered.

“And you as well,” Sul replied releasing the elf.   For a moment, the two men simply looked at each other.

“Does it speak ill of me that I am afraid?” Fenris asked.

“Only the dead are without fear,” Sul replied, “But there comes a time when you stop running, when you turn and face the tiger.”

Fenris smiled faintly, “I like that.  I will remember that, if nothing else.”

“If anyone could…”

There was another long moment of silence between the two men.  Then elf bowed deeply, his hand over his heart, turned and departed without a word.

Sul remained where he stood watching as Fenris faded from view and a prolonged silence followed.

“What did that mean?” Tallis asked curiously, seeking to break the pall that had settled over them, “ _Astia_ -”

“ _Astia valla femundis_ ,” Sul corrected.

“Which means…?”

“Boundless glory,” The blind man answered softly, “A pledge between brothers who are to enter battle and do not expect to see each other again in this life.”

“…oh,” She looked down at her hands and then back to regard the man, “He was important to you.”

“He was…my friend,” The man turned away, “Come, we have work to do.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tallis rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly, “It’s been fun and all but I really need to be on my-”

“You are directly responsible for the injury of two of my soldiers and have incurred a debt to the Phoenix Legion,” Sul cut her off, his tone utterly devoid of the humanity that had been present a moment before, “That debt will be repaid.  Follow.”

“Aye, aye” Tallis swallowed noisily and, repressing a shiver as she got to her feet, followed the blind man from the tent.

 


	10. The True Threat

"Lieutenant Vallorin, welcome back."

"Hello, Lieutenant Pellinore." Ceyrabeth smiled down at Pellinore from atop Eregost. She was rather surprised at how much seeing him, and the rest of the Legion, felt like coming home. "What's the news?"

"The Captain wants to see you in the command tent, lieutenant. Immediately."

"Immediately. Of course he does." Ceyrabeth sighed. She had ridden hard for days. A bath had been the only thing on her mind for roughly the last hundred miles. She felt like less than half a human. But...it was Sul, and she could not defy him. She handed Keiran the reins. "Take Eregost for me, will you?”

Ceyrabeth followed Pellinore through camp, astonished at the number of smiles directed at her, and the number of times she heard, “Welcome back Lieutenant!” or “Glad you’re back, Lieutenant!”

Sul echoed the trend.  She found him in his usual place; pouring over a map in the command tent, “Welcome back, Lieutenant,” He greeted her without looking up.

Ceyrabeth bowed at the waist. “Thank you sir.”

He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “Your report?”

“Yes sir.” Ceyrabeth thoroughly laid out the events of the last weeks. When she mentioned Gaetano’s name, she was surprised to see Sul’s lip curl with scorn. “He doesn’t think much of you either, Captain.” She informed him dryly.

“No, I imagine he does not. Is he in camp?”

“No, sir,” She replied with a grimace. “Thank Andraste for small favors.”

“Indeed.” Sul steepled his fingers. “Still I’m curious about this artifact he’s managed to acquire.”

“I’d just as soon never see it-or him- again.” Ceyrabeth huffed. “So if my next mission is to retrieve it, Captain, I respectfully submit my resignation.”

A smile flickered over Sul’s lips; just a second before it was gone, but Ceyrabeth knew it had been there. “No, Lieutenant. We have bigger issues at the moment.”

Ceyrabeth frowned, “Sir?”

“Follow me,” He said, turning without even waiting to see if she was actually following and striding away from her, a heavy cloak of dark purple flaring out behind him.

 “Yes, sir,” Ceyrabeth muttered and with a sigh trudged after him. At the stables, the Captain ordered Banshee and Eregost saddled and the shell-shocked stable hand had it done in less time than it took to blink.

They rode out of camp to the south, the road packed firm by the tramp of many feet. It made for easy riding and after about an hour, they were facing a steep incline.

Sul dismounted and so did Ceyrabeth. “Leave Eregost,” He commanded. “I would rather not have your mount spooked.”

“Yes, sir.” She said automatically, but then a thought nudged its way into her mind. “Wait…how do you spook the undead?” Sul made no reply.  “You know,” She puffed, cursing the fact that she was being forced to march uphill in full armor. “The Darkspawn have to be close on our heels.”

“You are mistaken, Lieutenant,” Sul replied, not sounding the least bit out of breath as he crested the peak and gestured out to the vista, “They are already here.”

Ceyrabeth’s eyes went wide and the blood drained from her face, “Maker preserve me,” She whispered:  The darkspawn were swarming over the ground like an upended ant hill; clamoring over everything that moved.  They were a hissing, snarling mass of horror and her stomach turned at the sight of them.   Even as she watched she could see the ground and vegetation wither and blacken from their blighted presence.   The smell slammed into her with the force of a warhammer: heat and rot and decay, like a bloated corpse left to putrefy in the sun.   She had her hand over her mouth to keep from being sick.

“Their scent was on the winds a day and a half ago,” Sul stated impassively giving no outward indications of discomfort, “But you can feel the presence of the horde from further still.”

“Fe—feel?”  She swallowed back bile, “I thought Grey Wardens—.”

Sul turned to regard her coolly, his eyes hidden by the samite bindings, “What you’re experiencing right now? That feeling of wrongness, of corruption? Anyone who cares to can detect it, at a cost.”

“Cost?”

“For the remainder of your days, Ceyrabeth, you will never be able to forget how the horde got inside you blood, wormed its way behind your bones….and made you feel their corruption,” He looked back out upon the roiling mass of filth, “Violated you down to your very soul.”  Carefully he began to unwind the samite bindings around his eyes.

“What—,” Ceyrabeth nearly choked on the rising bile in my throat, “What are you doing?”

“A friend told me that this Blight’s threat was greater than any realized,” The final wrapping came undone and Sul looked at Ceyrabeth with eyes colored yellow, streaks of green and violet running through them, “That the evil behind it is the true threat.”

Ceyrabeth snorted as she composed herself, “You have a friend?”

There was a prolonged silence, a cold and lonely thing that seemed to even smother the sound of the darkspawn horde.

Sul turned his gaze to horizon, “Not anymore,” He whispered and his eyes reformed into deep shades of indigo as he looked at the elf woman.

Ceyrabeth was observant- it had served her well her entire life. One man had remained conspicuously absent during her walk through camp. She guessed that whether by need or by accident, Sul had sent the elf with the lyrium markings away. She opened her mouth to utter a retort that would burn hotter than dragon fire...and closed it again. Something in the shifting colors of his eyes told her what he never would. Damn it, she was getting soft. "That was unkind of me, Captain. I apologize.” As the seconds passed, Ceyrabeth got restless. “Is your plan for us to stay here until I can experience the worming corruption for myself? Because I have to tell you, that would really--."

A scream, agonized and bestial, cut her off. Sul was stumbling about, his hands over his face. _He_ was making that awful screaming sound, like all the pain in the world was being inflicted upon him. “Captain Sul!” Ceyrabeth cried out and reached out for him.

“Don’t touch me!”

 Ceyrabeth gasped. His eyes were pools of swirling blackness but it had spread through his face; his forehead, his cheeks, through his nose and   down his neck, across his lips and mouth… _in_ his mouth… she could see it forcing itself down his throat like liquid tar and his throat bulged obscenely.  He pushed himself away from her and stumbling, he pitched forwards…

…and fell from the precipice.

“No!” The elven woman cried out and she lunged and dove, her armor scraping across the dirt. She reached out and grasped only air.   Frantically she clawed forward and nearly threw herself over the edge. There he was, dangling by one hand, holding onto a root and beneath him was the roiling horde of the darkspawn, ravenous and bloated, teeth and claws and swords and death.

“Give me your other hand!” She screamed, dangling over the edge at the waist gripping his wrist as the root began to give away, spilling dust into his upturned face, “Please, I can’t hold on.”

Sul’s mangled features peered back down at the Horde and then once more into Ceyrabeth’s eyes.

“Release…me,” He croaked.

“No, I’ve got you! Just give me your other arm!”   The weight of her own armor was starting to drag her forward toward death.

“Release me,” He commanded again his voice stronger, “You can do nothing for me.”

“I can save your flaming life!”

“The life of a heretic?  A vile blasphemer?”

The root tore and came free, falling from Sul’s hand and vanishing into the maw of the Horde.

“A man you yourself swore to kill?”

Ceyrabeth gritted her teeth, her wounded shoulder on fire with the strain of supporting his weight and trying to stop her own descent, “For the love of the all that is Holy, give me your other arm!”

“By all that is holy, as decried by the Orlesian Chantry, release me!”

**_“To the Void with the Chantry! Give me your arm!”_ **

Time stood still in that moment and for the first time Ceyrabeth could recall; she saw surprise register across Sul’s mutilated features.   With a grunt he swung his free arm up. She reached and made contact…

…and the ground beneath her legs gave way.

“No!” She screamed. She slid forward…and jerked to a stop.

“I’ve got you!” A voice called out from above her.   Ceyrabeth dared to look back, the angle giving her vertigo.

It was the elf girl: Tallis.  She smiled as she wrapped her legs around Ceyrabeth’s waist and gave a wave, “Have you out in a lick,”   And then inexplicably, her face vanished from view and she felt the young girl’s thighs and legs flex.   Muscles as thick and hard as cords bulged and Ceyrabeth felt her center of gravity begin to shift as she and Sul were hauled back from the cliff.    As soon her waist was on solid ground, Ceyrabeth focused on pulling Sul up, every muscle in her body on fire.

There was a snarl and a jerk, and Ceyrabeth gasped: a darkspawn had attached itself to Sul’s leg and was threatening to pull them back down.

“Tallis!” Ceyrabeth screamed.   “He’s caught, something’s got him!”

“One moment please,” Tallis said in a voice that spoke of tremendous strain yet attempted nonchalance.   She grunted and Ceyrabeth felt the muscles in Tallis’ body jolt sharply as they tightened more firmly on Ceyrabeth’s waist. A long dagger thudded to the ground on Ceyrabeth’s left side. 

“Captain, I need my sword hand!”

With a heave that had every one of the nerves in her upper body screaming, she brought Sul up far enough that he could throw his left arm around the back of her neck, grasping her pauldron for purchase.  Ceyrabeth plunged Tallis’ blade down into the darkspawn’s head. It wailed and fell back into the dust and ruin. She closed her arm tightly around Sul and looked back.

“We’re clear! Pull!” Ceyrabeth screamed.

“ _Merevas_!” Tallis swore as her body flexed, “What in the name of almighty Koslun do you think I’m doing?!”

Ceyrabeth hazarded a look back: Tallis was on her back, her arms wrapped around a massive tree root. Her back was arched to snapping but with a growl and a curse she heaved and brought Ceyrabeth back onto solid ground.   The other elf wasted no time, even as she felt Tallis’ legs go slack around her body, to hoist Sul all the way up. She dragged him a solid two feet away from the edge before releasing him.

“And that,” Tallis panted “is why I can still get top coin at the Rose,” She coughed once and groaned, rubbing her thighs, “Feel like I just got done riding The Bull.”

Ceyrabeth managed a weary grin, “‘The Bull’?” She asked the younger elf girl wryly.

“He’d just deny ever knowing me.” Tallis sagged to the ground next to Sul and pointed, “What happened to him?”

“I’m…not sure,” She was suddenly leery about the captain’s privacy.

“I’m fine,” Sul said calmly and got to his feet.  Ceryrabeth was shocked to see that his features had returned to normal, his glass eyes now a combination of yellow with streaks of violet and green.

Suddenly something occurred to Ceyrabeth. “Tallis…don’t think I’m ungrateful.” She started. “But what in Andraste’s name were you doing all the way out here?”

“The stable boy and I are…friends.” She said with a wink. “I asked him to keep me up to date on who leaves. I thought it was weird that you and the Captain would be heading out alone, so I followed you. I didn’t think I’d be running a rescue mission. So…really though. What happened?”

“I was told by someone that it was the evil behind the Blight that was the true threat,” Sul reiterated as he turned his gaze back out to the edge of the cliff, careful not to look directly at the Horde again, “And she was right,” He turned back to face the women, “Our plans must be accelerated. This faction of the horde cannot be allowed to rejoin the rest.”

“This isn’t the whole horde?” Tallis asked agape.

“No, this is but a single arm of it,” He turned his glass gaze to Ceyrabeth, “You know it well, Lieutenant: it was the faction that decimated your forces at Ostagar.”

Ceyrabeth felt fear give way to rage and she met Sul’s shifting eyes as the yellow in them immediately vanished under scarlet bursts like sudden bloodstains on flesh, “If that is true, Captain, then I beg you: give me a chance to avenge myself and my comrades.   Let us reclaim our honor.”

“For the glory of the Orlesian Chantry?”

“For the memory of our brave king. And…” Ceyrabeth swallowed. “For the mages that I should have protected.”

Sul considered a moment then nodded, “Very well; I award you a temporary field command, Lieutenant.”

“I…what?”

“Congratulations Commander Ceyrabeth,” Sul nodded to her, “Follow me back to camp.  Yourself as well Tallis; we will have need of your skills.”

“I…yes sir,” Tallis stammered and managed a half-salute before running off after him.   Ceyrabeth remained frozen in shock.

A command?

“Do not tarry, commander,” Sul’s voice carried over the sound of the Horde.

“Yeah, hurry up!” Tallis chimed in.

Ceyrabeth’s brain whirled; she grasped at the first thought the came to her mind, “How will we lure the Darkspawn into battle, sir?”

Sul stopped and paused thoughtfully, “The Horde is driven by primal urges, a collective consciousness from what I have seen,” He removed his belt knife, “And driven by the will of the Archdemon.”

“So, how do we get it to follow?” Tallis asked.

“Have you ever encountered a shark before?” Sul asked the girl calmly.

Tallis frowned, puzzled, “Um…no?” She looked at Ceyrabeth who just shook her head with a puzzled expression.

“Much like the horde; they are things of urge and appetite,” Slowly he drew the blade across his the palm of his hand.

“What are you doing?” Ceyrabeth yelled.

“Chumming the waters,” Sul answered cryptically.  He brought the bloody blade to his lips, “Urthemiel,” he whispered and then he reared back and cast the knife over the cliff into the ranks of the horde, “Sharks respond to blood in the water.   For the Darkspawn, we shall use a more potent lure.”

“What’s that?” Ceyrabeth asked, tired of trying to keep up.

“Fear,” The blind man answered.

“Fear?” Tallis frowned, “Whose fear?”

“Mine,” He turned and walked away, “Come, we must prepare ourselves.”

Both women exchanged looks of confusion, awe, terror and a thousand other emotions that defied both words and expression.

“Is he serious?” Tallis finally managed.

“I don’t know,” Ceyrabeth said and then she set her shoulders back in determination.  “Let’s go find out.”

 


	11. The Battle Of Rainesfere

“Commander Vallorin?” A voice called up from ground level, “The last of the scouts have reported in!”

Ceyrabeth repressed a sigh. The younger officer was typical of The Phoenix Legion: green, eager, long on enthusiasm but short on a working knowledge of proper military protocol.   Amongst the Templars with whom she had previously served, it would have been inconceivable for a man as young as—what was his name, Laro? Marthan? – to hold an officer’s rank.  But Ceyrabeth was forced to admit, the Legion was about as far from the Templars as one could get and still remain on Thedas.

Still, “Lieutenant,” Ceyrabeth growled, her freshly minted dragonscale armor, granted to her upon receiving her promotion, creaking as she leaned forward from her saddle, bringing all the authority that serving in the Templars had afforded her to bear. “You are an officer serving on the front lines of a major engagement.   Information is not to be simply bellowed in the general direction of the recipient. Do I make myself clear?”

The young lieutenant turned a sickly shade of white. During her short time in the Legion, Ceyrabeth’s reputation for ruthlessness against those that displeased her had become nearly as dire as the Captain’s, “Yes ma’am,” He drew himself to proper attention: straight backed, head held high, and snapped off an abrupt but acceptable salute. “Apologies, ma’am.”

Ceyrabeth held the moment a while longer, then leaned back in her saddle, “Now, report.”

“Yes ma’am,” The Lieutenant cleared his throat, “Our scouts report scores of Darkspawn entering the bannorn.”

“Their point of origin?”

“Our rangers predict an access point to the deep roads somewhere in the Korcari Wilds.”

She nodded and unconsciously tucked a lock of scarlet hair behind her pointed ear, “That would fit with our earlier assessments,” She surveyed the sunlight draped landscape. Flat terrain for the most part, sparsely wooded with elevated ground on the Western borders that eventually became the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. This bannorn was called Rainesfere and as far as geographical features go, it was thoroughly unremarkable. Which made the Captain’s insistence on it being the staging ground for their attack upon the Darkspawn Horde that much more of a mystery.  The last few weeks had been spent herding them, strike by carefully coordinated strike, to this very location. She shook herself from her reverie. All would be revealed when the Captain was good and ready. It always was. “What are the Darkspawn numbers?”

The lieutenant swallowed: “A quarter-score at least, commander.”

“That’s five to one,” Ceyrabeth repressed a shudder as fear began to settle into her bones, “Their composition?”

“Genlocks. Hurlocks. Ogres. The same creatures that were seen at Ostagar.”

And there it was, the name no one had wanted to speak: Ostagar, where the brave king Cailan of Ferelden had led five thousand of his finest against the horde.    Cailan had fought bravely.   Cailan had fought honorably.   Cailan had fought valiantly.

And Cailan had died and had taken most of his men to the grave with him.

Now, here she stood with only a fraction of the men that the king had commanded.   Here on open ground in broad daylight outnumbered many times over in an army comprised of rebels, mercenaries and other malcontents.

Here under the command of the greatest military mind Thedas had ever seen.

The thought instantly replaced the chill of fear in her bones with a burning anticipation; No, they were not the same doomed men and women that had stood with the late king.  They followed a different kind of a leader—perhaps even a better kind—and led by him they would give the Darkspawn something new to fear.

“Very well lieutenant. Report back to your unit and prepare your forces.”

“Yes ma’am!”   Offering another salute, the lieutenant took the reins of his horse from a waiting attendant, mounted and galloped away, kicking up dust and dirt as she did.

Out of reflex, Ceyrabeth placed a steadying hand on her own mount to calm him but the motion was halted before it barely begun.  Eregost was one of the undead, an abomination in the eyes of the Chantry and yet had proven to be a loyal and stalwart companion, having saved her life many times over.   He did not require food nor water or rest and certainly did not require calming from a bit of dust and dirt being kicked up.

“Come,” She pulled his reins and steered him past the honor guard that was maintaining a vigil on a higher western outcropping that offered a good view of the field of battle.

The Honor Guard were the elite of the Phoenix Legion. Easily identifiable by their plate mail consisting of volcanic aurum and everite, it gleamed copper and bronze and was etched with various motifs depicting falcons, hawks and other birds of prey. With their double-sided lances, crossbows and Avvar weapons called “flails”- spiked chains tipped with spheres of solid steel similarity adorned with spikes and anchored to long wooden shafts – they were as distinctive as they were intimidating.

Yet none offered challenge as she rode into their midst to confront their ward and lord as well as her own: Captain Drachaen Sul

He sat upon his own mount; the albino dracolisk known as Banshee, its bone white scales reflecting the glaring sun. She didn’t look any happier about the oppressive heat than Ceyrabeth was.  The beast offered her a nod of recognition as she approached and she noted that Commander Pellinore was also present.

“I still don’t understand why we’re launching an attack during the hottest part of the day,” Ceyrabeth commented sourly, “Our men must be baking in their armor.”

The tall figure astride Banshee turned to regard her. His own armor was a blend of metal, silk, and leathers done in multiple layers and made of more materials than she could easily identify.  It all looked extraordinarily complex which made a certain amount of sense as the Captain himself had designed it. Something the Legion’s master smith, the golem Yevvon, had complained about incessantly for weeks.

“Consider the Darkspawn, born in darkness. To fight in the full glare of day offers them a greater disadvantage,” Sul commented in that tone that was equal parts calm and culture that would have been suited for a man sitting upon a throne and not a war mount. If he was experiencing any tension at all about the upcoming battle, it did not show in the slightest.    Of course, when he was wearing his helm –comprised of a dizzying array of pieces comprised of a wide variety of materials-- featured a half-mask that left only his mouth exposed.  It was impossible to get any kind of accurate read on the man.   The only indication of any kind of nervousness at all was that he was rhythmically tapping the tips of his fingers upon the pommel of his saddle, each finger alternating but maintaining a steady beat.    Not quite fidgeting but there it was.

“The scouts have reported in: standard horde makeup as far as troop composition and numbers well into the several thousands,” Ceyrabeth reported.

“As was expected,” Sul replied, “This is a different arm of the Horde then and not the main bulk which is I imagine in the Deep Roads amassing under the command of the Archdemon; Urthemiel, if the Tevinter documents we recovered are accurate. Their ancient god of beauty.”

Ceyrabeth’s nose crinkled in distaste: all things Tevinter, matters pertaining to their foul and corrupt draconic gods were blasphemy in the eyes of the Maker and what little piety she still possessed recoiled at hearing the names spoke aloud.

“Those things that hold power over us only do so at our allowance through our investment,” Sul commented softly turning his blank faced helm towards her, “Calm yourself, commander.”

“Yes sir,” Ceyrabeth commented through gritted teeth.

Hel beckoned and a small map adorned with several different figurines floated towards him. The map depicted the region and Ceyrabeth could safely assume that the figurines represented the various forces, both under their command and arrayed against them.

“All the darkspawn need to do is push forward with their forward vanguard, outflank us with their reserves and they’ll surround and consume us,” She reported darkly, “At least at Ostagar, we had the ability to funnel the Darkspawn forces into a bottleneck. We could direct the enemy.”

“At Ostagar, Cailan had dominance over the terrain,” Sul acceded, “An advantage that he both failed to capitalize upon or retain.” He turned his attention back to the map before him, “King Cailan had spent the entirely of his life at the feet of the Orlesian Chantry training how to refight the _last_ war and at his back stood a general twisted by hatred and madness whose combat experience only extended to the Orlesians.”

It was then that a high pierced shrieking horn cut through the air off in the distance and a massing shadow began to form and spread, surging like a swarm of something alive, vile and hungry.

“Those are not Orlesians,” Sul finished and Ceyrabeth could not refute his argument, “Steps have been taken to ensure not just dominance of the terrain, commander, but mastery of it.   There are many ways to direct the enemy’s movements,” His voice took on a sly tone, “Or have you forgotten how you first came to be in service to the Legion?”

Ceyrabeth gritted her teeth harder as her already heat-flushed cheeks burnt a little hotter: She and her fellow Templars had been led neatly into a trap, involving nothing more complicated than some fleeing scouts as bait and several pools full of deep bog water.  The trap had ensnared an entire company of trained Templars without a single weapon drawn or arrow loosed. It was doubly painful to remember that she _had_ seen the trap, and had to walk into it regardless to save her brother Templars.

“No sir. I have not forgotten.”

Pellinore removed a strange device from his belt-a spyglass, she had once heard it called- and handed it to Ceyrabeth.

“What do you see commander?” Sul inquired.

She brought the device to her eye and sighed, “I see the horde.   They are coming for us,” She fussed with the device for a moment. It too had been designed by Sul and allowed one to see far further and more clearly than the average sailor’s glass.

“Do they march with any recognizable formation?” Sul asked, his tone intensifying, “Grouping based on arms, breed or ranking?”

“Not that I can see,” She shook her head, “They approach as a swarm, much as they did at Ostagar. Does it matter?”

Sul permitted himself a thin smile, “Understand the Darkspawn, commander, and you will understand how to destroy them.”

“They are evil, that is all that I need understand.”

“And that is why you are not in command, _former_ Templar Vallorin,” Sul countered.

Ceyrabeth felt as though she had been slapped across the face. How he managed to make the word ‘Templar’ sound like such an insult, she couldn’t understand.

Meanwhile Sul was still tapping out their strange patterns, against the horn of his saddle, “Five hundred and closing. It’s time,” One of his fingers immediately ceased tapping and he turned aside, “Commander Pellinore.”

“Sir!” The middle-aged elf snapped a crisp salute and presented himself before his captain.

“The count has been reached. Sound the first wave.”

“Sir!”  Pellinore reached for a horn on his belt, oddly constructed and adorned in runes that glowed and hummed.   He blew hard and a booming note rolled forth from the instrument to reverberate across the entire landscape.  It shook Ceyrabeth from her humiliation and she focused on the other elf “And this is how it shall begin,” He mused grimly at the vast hordes of Darkspawn arrayed against them. Answering calls from various horns echoed up and down the ranks of armored men and women on either side of them.

“Begin, Commander?”  Sul shook his head and smiled a smile that would have frightened the blind, “No.   This is how it shall end.”

An arcing ball of fire from her left caught Ceyrabeth’s eye.  She turned just in time to see it climb high over the ranks of her men hurtling towards the masses of darkspawn.   It was soon joined by a second and a third in rapid succession, each from a different position just behind their forward ranks.

“I wasn’t aware we had brought siege engines,” Ceyrabeth commented cautiously.

“We didn’t,” Pellinore replied, “We brought Yevvon.”

Ceyrabeth’s confusion still showed on her face before her brain caught up with her.

Pellinore allowed a tight smile, “Do you know how far and how rapidly a golem can throw a large flaming stone especially when augmented with a spell of haste”

“Five hundred…” Her voice trailed off as the first of the flaming rock impacted upon the Darkspawn.  And with a whoosh that was audible even clear on the other side of the battlefield, the entire stretch of land that the Darkspawn trod upon exploded into fire.

“Sweet Maker!” Ceryrabeth cried out as the following rocks landed and detonated amongst the darkspawn.  Walls of flame sprouted up surrounding the darkspawn, dividing their ranks, cutting off both advance and retreat in seemingly random patterns.  Soon an entire third of the eastern field was a roaring conflagration, a labyrinth of fire from which there seemed to be no escape for the darkspawn whose death cries were audible to the entire army as they burned.

“Burn you motherless bastards!” Someone cried out and there was a roar of approval from the assembled men many of whom had just moments before secretly feared that the sheer numbers of the Darkspawn would swallow them whole.

“How?” She asked.

“An old mages’ trick,” Pellinore answered for her. ‘Grease Fire’ they call it.  Our rangers just substituted pitch and oil for magic grease and…” He gestured to the flaming chaos across the field.

“There is dominance of the terrain, Commander,” Sul said softly, “And there is mastery.”  Another finger on his right hand stopped tapping, “The count has been reached, Commander. Artillery may fire at will and sound for archers.”

“Sir!”  Pellinore reached for the strange looking horn and removed a disk of metal contained within the body of it, sliding in a thinner disk with a series of holes in it.   He blew the horn three times, the tone higher pitched and in short rapid bursts.    Down the line, similar horns sounded and flags were raised.

“Orders received sir!” Pellinore responded.

“You can’t hope to hit them at this range,” Ceyrabeth commented to Sul, “It’s far too great distance.”

“The objective is not to slay, Commander” Sul responded, “But to spur,” He turned to Pellinore, “Ready a volley.”

Pellinore blew the strange horn emitting the same high pitched rapid sound. Flags were lowered and raised again and men took up their weapons, nocked and drew even as great flaming stone continued to pelt the Darkspawn.

“Loose.”

Pellinore blew a single sustained note and a cloud of arrows darkened the sky and soared towards the Darkspawn.

“Darkspawn armor is thick, but in poor condition; corroded by their own Taint and a lack of maintenance,” Pellinore commented, “We can afford to use lighter arrows sacrificing penetration for range.”

The arrows fell upon the burning Darkspawn in waves of black, like a swarm of wasps.   Few fell but almost none escaped without an arrow lodged into an exposed arm or leg triggering even more chaos.

And then they started to fall to their knees, choking and vomiting.

“And the poison my people provided doesn’t hurt either,” Pellinore finished mildly.

“Poison? Clever.” Ceyrabeth commented.

“The Dalish have long kept the Darkspawn at bay through their own alchemical secrets: traps and toxins that they were willing to share in exchange for sanctuary…,” Sul’s smile twisted into something angry, “…and that they be spared having the rhetoric of the Orlesian chantry forced on them at every turn and instead be allowed to practice their customs in peace.”

“The Darkspawn now only have two options,” Ceyrabeth replied, nodding, “Remain where they are and burn whilst being shot full of arrows and crushed by flying rocks or march through the flames and take even more losses,” She was forced to admit, it was an elegant trap. Still, certain that that last comment had been directed at her, she was not about to admit that aloud. Rather she bit her tongue and watched the fires burn…and then gasped as they suddenly started to flicker and go out.

“Captain!” Ceyrabeth shouted and pointed.

“Finally,” Sul commented.

“Without the fire, how do you intend to control the terrain?” Ceyrabeth asked in a tone that bordered on insubordinate.

“There are other ways to maintain the advantage in battle.   In this instance, knowledge.”

“What knowledge does having our trap fail grant us pray tell?”

“Our trap has not failed, commander,” Sul retorted coldly,  “In extinguishing those specific flames, the darkspawn reveal two vital pieces of information: where they intend to move their troops and, more importantly: the location of their mages,” Sul turned his eyeless helm towards her, “ _Their_ god does not forbid them from making use of magic on the battlefield,” He settled back against his saddle to watching as the Darkspawn began to advance through the freshly extinguished paths of scorched earth, “Fortunately, neither does mine.”

Pellinore frowned. He’d not heard the captain discuss matters of religion on a personal basis before, “Begging your pardon Captain, but which god is that?”

Sul smiled again, that chilling smile that would have looked like madness on the face of anyone else but him, “Why, the only god that matters in war commander- victory.”

Pellinore and Ceyrabeth exchanged a look and each offered a silent prayer to their own gods that their captain could back up his bold words.

Sul handed the spyglass to Ceyrabeth, “What do you see?”

She took the instrument and adjusted the lenses until the front lines of Darkspawn snapped into focus. “The first few ranks of Darkspawn are in bad shape between the arrows, the fire and the giant flying rocks,” She reported, “But the ones behind them are looking fresh and angry.”

“Range?”

Ceyrabeth checked which lens was in position and counted the notches on the side of the spyglass, “Three hundred and closing,” she brought the instrument up to her eye again, frowning, “Those ogres are closing fast but I don’t see any mages.”

“Mages are well hidden in any army, but spellcasting is rarely a subtle thing,” Sul replied evenly as the third finger on his hand stopped counting, “The count is reached commander: issue the next command.”

“Sir!” Pellinore adjusted the horn and added a thicker, heavier disk into the body and blew out a single long, low note followed by a short note that was even lower in pitch.   The reaction was instantaneous; archers exchanged bows with the men behind them and took up shorter, thicker bows with a curved shape that seemed to twist upon itself and readied larger arrows with oversized tips that gleamed wickedly in the sun.   The men in the ranks before them readied great shields and spears and arranged themselves in a formation that Ceyrabeth had never seen before.

“It’s called a ‘phalanx’,” Sul answered her unspoken question softly, “I came across a reference to it in a manuscript dating back to the fall of Kal Hirol. There the casteless dwarves arranged themselves in such a way as to delay the encroaching Darkspawn and buy time for the refugees fleeing the city.”

“They’re sitting nugs, grouped together that closely!” Ceyrabeth yelled, “One good blast from an emissary—“

“Have you found any emissary spell casters yet?” Sul asked calmly.

“Not since they extinguished our fires!” She snapped bringing the eyeglass up to her eye, scanning the swarming ranks of the darkspawn frantically.  It was impossible to see anything through all the smoke and chaos; their sheer numbers were giving her a headache.   Thinking quickly, she traced back the line of trajectory from where the last wall of flame had been extinguished hoping to find its point of origin…

And found a dead emissary, distinctive for its ornate headdress, its’ throat neatly slit.

“How?” She scanned again and found a second body, an arrow buried in its eye. A third with the same, a fourth with a sword buried in its side. A gloved hand materialized out of the chaos of the horde to wrench the weapon free and neatly sliced off his head before it dove to the ground, disappearing amidst the dirt and smoke.

No, not disappearing, blending in with his surroundings with his dirt and grass colored cowl and cloak, patterned to the shapes and hues of the wild.

“Camouflage,” She whispered softly, “Rangers,” She lowered the glass turning to Sul, “How did you get rangers that far into—“ A stray memory clicked.  “You didn’t!” she gasped, “You just had them lie in wait for the Darkspawn to arrive after they finished spreading the pitch and oil about!”

Sul’s helm tilted fractionally to the side, “Well done commander,” He said, “Very well done indeed.”

Ceyrabeth could not keep the warmth from spreading within her: The captain’s compliments were rare as diamonds and, if she was forced to be honest with herself, twice as precious, “Thank you sir,” She mumbled and was grateful that he couldn’t see the furious blush spreading across her cheeks.

A roar echoed several times over tore her from her thoughts and back to the present. She brought the spyglass up to her eye and gasped, “Those ogres will be on us at any moment,” One had succumbed to its injuries from fire or arrow but three more continued to rampage forward, seemingly undeterred by the multitude of burns covering their body and arrows protruding from them.

“The phalanx formation will not hold against a combined onslaught by three ogres,” Pellinore cautioned their captain.

“Fortunately they will not be called upon to do so,” Sul answered evenly. He turned his attention to Ceyrabeth and continued tapping his fingers rhythmically, “Range?”

“One hundred and closing awfully flaming fast,” Ceyrabeth cried.

“Do I give the order Captain?” Pellinore asked.

“Hold,” Sul instructed.   Tense moments went by as fires burned in the distance and arrows descended upon the ravenous horde bearing down on them, “Sound the count.”

Ceyrabeth couldn’t spare the seconds to remove the eyepiece from her eye, she just twisted the device until things came into focus and counted the notches on the side by touch.

“Eighty.”

“Seventy”

“Sixty!”

“Captain!” Pellinore cried.

“Hold,” Sul replied calmly, continuing to tap his finger at a steady pace.

“Sul, the ogres will be in melee range of our front ranks in seconds,” Ceyrabeth cried “Fifty!”

“Sir!” Pellinore shouted.

After what seemed an eternity, “The count is reached commander,” Sul said softly, “Sound the charge.”

“Forty!” Ceyrabeth shouted, drawing her weapon and preparing to rush down there herself to avert the inevitable slaughter of her—yes, _her_ men, damn it.

Pellinore brought the war horn to his lips and blew three short rapid bursts.

The forward archers raised their bows and fired level to the field directly into the oncoming ogres whilst the rear archers continued to rain death upon the advancing Darkspawn infantry.

“They can’t stop them!” Ceyrabeth cried as she readied to charge…only to be jerked to a halt by Sul’s hand on her shoulder.

“Hold commander. Your courage does you credit, but what you lack is patience.”

“Patience?!” Ceyrabeth spat, “Those men will be slaughtered!”

“That is possible,” Sul conceded, “All war is risk and in every battle losses are inevitable.”

“I won’t stand by and allow my men to die needlessly!” Keiran was down there somewhere. Mathias and Tregan. Even Arryn, boy though he was, had been assigned to a battalion. The thought of them falling to the darkspawn made bile rise up in her throat.

The ogres were upon the forward ranks, their war clubs raised high and their red eyes filled with hatred.

 _“Yer mother was a half penny whore!!!!!!”_ a familiar voice called out.

Ceyrabeth jerked her head back and gaped at the sight of Reaper Maul riding some sort of wheeled vehicle being pulled by a pair of enormous bears clad in barding. He was screaming at the top of his lungs and the forward ranks stepped deftly aside, granting him and those that followed him, a clear shot at the approaching ogres.

“Neither will I.” Sul replied coolly.

The ogres, to their credit managed a look of bestial astonishment before Reaper Maul plowed headlong directly into the largest one.   The two bears pulling the vehicle savaged the ogre with their massive paws as Maul leapt from the vehicle landed upon the ogre’s chest and began to pummel the creature senseless with his fists, which were encased in massive spiked gauntlets.

Ceryrabeth’s mouth opened and closed several times as she attempted to form words.

“The Crimson Vanguard has been successfully deployed,” Pellinore exhaled with more than a little relief.

Sul nodded, “Very well.”

Ceyrabeth exhaled hard as he observed four chariots, each loaded with men howling for blood and wielding enormous weapons descend upon the ogres and run them down, “What are they riding?” she managed.

“An older form of transportation,” Sul replied, “It is called a ‘chariot’.  I learned of the design from a children’s toy in Amaranthine and adopted it for combat.”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“They are rarely used now. They require flat terrain to be most effective.”

“Rainesfere accommodates them rather well,” Pellinore commented, “Especially with the ground freshly scoured by fire or frozen over by darkspawn frost magic.”

Ceyrabeth continued to watch the onslaught in awe.  The chariots bore several large men painted in strange designs and garbed in clothes made of animal hide, adorned with blood and the gory trophies of former victories.   “Who are they?”

“Berserkers and Reavers,” Pellinore answered, “In addition to growing stronger from their injuries, they seem to have the power to inflict a type of curse upon the feeble-minded that paralyzes them with mortal terror.” He turned in his saddle to address Ceyrabeth, “The captain discovered that ogres, whilst physically powerful, are vulnerable to any form of mental assault.”

“Why not use mages?”

“Our mages are otherwise occupied and not so numerous that we can afford to pit them against ogres in such a direct manner,” Sul interjected.

The death-cry of the final ogre falling to the weapons of the Reavers drew Ceyrabeth ‘s attention and she could not repress a grin, “That’s the last of the ogres,” She said, then frowned, “What are they doing?”  Rather than retreating, the charioteers formed up and appeared to be pushing deeper into the ranks of the Darkspawn, “They’ll be overrun,” She commented, “And our archers can’t offer any support without running the risk of hitting them.”

Sure enough, the Darkspawn converged on the charioteers, swarming their position.   For every two or three slain by either the bears or the enormous weapons the soldiers wielded, more swarmed to fill the void. The horde moved with a singular purpose and the fates of the brave men and women were sealed.

“They’re going to die!” Ceyrabeth cried out and though her feelings towards Maul were mixed at best, he had proven himself a valiant companion and worthy of a better death than this.

“A possibility faced by all warriors,” Sul commented calmly, still rhythmically tapping two of his fingers.

“Damn it!” With a growl of equal parts frustration and anger, she brought the spyglass up to her eye and found Maul amidst the swarm of Darkspawn. He was covered in wounds yet still grinning madly as he brought up his war horn, carved from the skull of the first dragon he had ever slain he had once informed her, and blew a last call of defiance and tribute befitting his courage.

And then the forward ranks of the Phoenix Legion answered the call with their own and charged the distracted Darkspawn.

And she understood. Maul’s vanguard was not just a single strike against the ogres: they were a _distraction_.

Ceyrabeth gaped as the forward line charged the spawn. The front line collided into them with the force of a storm: shields bashing aside the confused spawn and swords drawing blood with every blow. Arrows arched up and rained down on the heads of the Darkspawn infantry, well short of the charioteers who had reached the rear echelons of the Horde.

The Darkspawn quickly adjusted to this sudden attack and surged against the Legion.    The Legion responded in turn by digging in their shields as the next line of troops fell into positon behind them bearing those strange bows.   The spawn charged the ‘phalanx’ formation and the second line loosed a volley of arrows that streaked through the gaps in the line of soldiers before them to strike the Spawn head on.

Undeterred, the Darkspawn collided with the phalanx formation, slathering and clawing at the shields trying to get to the men behind them.  The soldiers held their ground against the Horde, held against the crushing momentum of the beasts. Held and continued to hold.

And then there was a moment of near silence as both man and monster realized that the line would not break.

The silence was broken by the howling of beasts as Mabari raced through the ranks of the assembled Legion and streaked towards the Darkspawn.

“War hounds!” Ceyrabeth cried out.

“Orphans of Ostagar plus our own kennels,” Pellinore explained.

“Mabari cannot stand against frontal assault,” Sul commented, “As Cailan learned.”

There was a single cry and the front line shoved with all their might, knocking the Darkspawn back.  The front line turned sideways in unison and a second volley of arrows streaked out from the second line and cut down the spawn.   The line then surged forward with their blades and hacked and slashed and cut the disoriented beasts down.

“However,” Sul continued, “When used in conjunction with close-quarter troops, they can force the enemy to divide their attention between two separate angles of attack: high and strong from the men, low and fast from the beasts and the end results are as you see.”

Ceyrabeth did see as the Mabari dragged the Darkspawn down to meet the blades of the soldiers, hampering the movements of the horde so that the soldiers of the Legion could deliver the killing blow, before bounding away back behind the forward line. The Darkspawn regrouped and charged again only to be met with the solid wall of shield and muscle.

At that moment the war horns from the rear of the Spawn began to sound and Reaper Maul led his chariot vanguard directly into the backs of the Darkspawn bringing death to the spawn with axe and claw, sword and fist.

Chaos erupted as the Darkspawn struggled to adjust.  They turned their backs to face Maul’s onslaught. The Legion’s infantry took advantage of the Darkspawn’s state of disarray and pressed the assault; forcing the enemy to face them on two fronts.

Slowly the forward line funneled into the main body of the darkspawn horde, digging in their shields and providing cover for additional troops who penetrated the ranks of the horde and fortified their position with spear, sword and shield.   Whenever a point within the formation looked to be overwhelmed, Maul would sound his horn and his charioteers would race to intercept and draw the enemy to them whilst the archers would focus their fire on that point with assistance from Yevvon’s carefully aimed boulders.  When Maul or his charioteers were in danger of themselves being overrun, they would speed away and the infantry formation would push forward. Man and hound would work in unison to push deeper still into the ranks of the enemy.

Inch by inch, the Legion invaded the Horde and fortified their ranks within the enemy army; shield and spear creating a corridor in which poured the remaining infantry.

Ceyrabeth watched the battle unfold and a grin slowly spread across her face.   _Leave it to Sul to-_

Her thoughts came to a crashing halt as she watched the Horde, still vastly outnumbering the Phoenix Legion, begin to reshape its ranks in response to the incursion.   She understood their plan and her blood ran cold.

“The Horde is attempting a pincer!” Ceyrabeth yelled, “They’re going to outflank our forces!”

“With the main body of their infantry divided and their superior numbers, a double envelopment is the only sound tactical option the Darkspawn have available to them,” Sul commented calmly.  “Fortunately-“

The arrow came from somewhere off to their left. It struck Sul in the shoulder, knocking him from his mount.

“Drachaen!” Ceyrabeth cried out, drawing her blade as a group of Darkspawn materialized out of the shadow, “Help him!” She yelled at Pellinore who was already off his horse and tending to their fallen Captain. “For the Legion!” She roared and bore down upon the charging Darkspawn.   She didn’t bother to count how many they were. It didn’t matter- they would all die by her hand this day.

“Die, you vile bastards!” She hissed, bringing her curved sword up.

“Hold!”

The command came suddenly and she jerked the reins on instinct causing Eregost to rear up before the oncoming monsters.   Suddenly there was a click followed by sudden cracking noise…

….and the entire Darkspawn platoon tumbled into a concealed pit that Ceyrabeth had missed by inches.

The smell of pitch and oil overwhelmed her senses just in time for her comprehend the plan. She gripped the flask containing the fire bomb at her belt. It was standard issue for all horsemen and she hurled it into the pit.   With a crackle and a scream of tortured wood and flesh the entire trench went up consuming the darkspawn within and blocking those infiltrators that had attempted to follow. Ceyrabeth couldn’t help but laugh as adrenaline and admiration coursed through her veins.

“Archers: loose.”

Ceyrabeth quickly moved her mount out of the line of fire as the royal guard unleashed their bolts into the oncoming creatures.   Without the element of surprise, the spawn could not withstand against the withering onslaught of fire and bolt.

“Osen,” The same voice called.  The cat appeared out of seemingly nowhere, ignored the Captain on the ground, instead hopping onto the shoulders of…

…one of the royal guardsmen, his features concealed by his helm.

**“Mas-ter?”**

“Hunt.”

The one-eyed cat hissed with glee and dove into the flames of the trench, tearing the beasts apart.

“Won’t he burn?” The “Captain” being propped up on the ground asked in a voice that was distinctly high pitched and feminine.

Ceyrabeth dismounted and came bounding back to the scene, placing her hand on Banshee’s flank, “What is---“She pulled her hand back. It was simply white paint covering the brown scales of the far more common Abyssal Hang Tooth “---is all this?”  She also noticed that the saddle was a fabrication, made of wood and plaster and designed to increase the height and girth of whoever sat upon it.  The guardsman assisted the “Captain” in removing the faceplate of the massive helm to reveal:

“Tallis?!” Ceyrabeth exclaimed.

“The one and only,” She smiled painfully, “Ow! I don’t think I want to be the decoy anymore.”

“Are you badly injured?” The guardsman inquired before removing his helm to reveal Sul garbed in his samite eye binding.

“ _Fenedhis Lasa_!” Ceyrabeth exclaimed, “How did you--?”

“Some cheap theatrics and minor enchantment all geared towards misdirection,” Sul said waving her question away, “Tallis?”

“I don’t think it penetrated the undercoat,” She managed a brave smile, “Yevvon does good work.”

“He does indeed,” Sul hefted Tallis up in his arms.

“Oo!”  Tallis squeaked, “You are stronger than you look.”   She pretended to trace the cord like muscles on his arms and chest. Ceyrabeth pretended not to notice.

“Captain!” Pellinore yelled over the noise, “The count is breached. The Bulwark will not hold!”

“Sound the final charge. Send left and right lancers against their targets and deploy the mages.  Pellinore, lead the left charge, Ceyrabeth the right,” Sul replied calmly.

“Sir!” Pellinore strapped his helm on and readied his flail, “For the Legion!”

“Osen!” The cat, coated in flames and blood and yet none the worse for wear appeared out of the trench licking its chops, “Clear the way.  Fire and death!”

“ **Fire! Death!** ” The tabby cat roared, its second mutilated eye now open and displaying a rolling ball of flame as he bounded into the darkness ahead of the knights.

Ceyrabeth meanwhile was trying to make sense out of what was happen. “What Lancers? What are you-?”

She noticed then that no less than 20 knights had materialized from out of the gloom behind them: armed and ready.   The entirety of Drachaen’s honor guard split amongst themselves between Ceyrabeth and Pellinore’s command.

“You’ll be defenseless!”  She hissed at Sul.

“The Maker watches over us all child,” Came the response as Mother Giselle took the wounded Tallis -who released her grip on Sul somewhat reluctantly –“and if The Maker is busy,” She gestured behind herself to the forms of Atiya and Peloquin who had lurked in the darkness until now but were prepared with all the protection Sul could require and more.

“You have your orders Commander,” The Captain said.

Ceyrabeth snapped on her ornate war helm, “One day,” She muttered to a grinning Peloquin under her breath as she passed, “I am going to be too angry by his cleverness to be impressed by it and I am going to kill him.”

“Perhaps.  But not this day. Mind the glyphs.”

“Yes sir,” She growled, drawling her sword in one hand and her shield in the other, “All on me!  We are the Fire Risen!”

“For the Legion!” The men cried out.

“We are the light against the darkness!”

“For the Legion!”

“They will see us and see their death!”

 “ _Death_!”

“ _Death_!” She roared back and charged down the hill, her knights rampaging after her to fall upon the divided Darkspawn forces.    She caught Maul’s eye as he and his charioteers headed straight to the nearly overwhelmed infantry.

And then, they sliced the harnesses of the bears clean from the chariots and leapt free from the vehicles.

“What in the name of Andraste-?” Ceyrabeth stared.

The bears ran full speed at the Phoenix Legion bulwark.   The bulwark helped firm as the first of the bears reached them.   The bears actually leapt over their shields…

….and with an explosion of black smoke the bears were no longer bears but wolves.

 _Our mages are otherwise occupied and not so numerous that we can afford to pit them against ogres in such a direct manner_ , Sul had told her.

“Shapechangers!” She gasped.

Suddently the chariots that had been abandoned within the ranks of the Darkspawn exploded into arcing blue lightening, coursing through the all the water that had been created from the snow and ice of the Darkspawn emissaries’ efforts to put out the flames from earlier: a stockpile of shock bombs in each no doubt.    They added to the confusion and allowed the wolves behind friendly lines to become robed men and women.  Maul and his berserkers were not idle, using their great weapons and ability to induce fear to drive the Horde back whilst the mages booby-trapped the front lines of the bulwark.

Glyphs.   The various mages had shed their wolf forms and were now desperately laying down glyphs as fast as they could before the men standing at the fore of the three-way bulwark.   Ceyrabeth watches as the glyphs glowed green and blue forcing the Darkspawn back away from the infantry.  Where two glyphs overlapped, there was an explosion of kinetic energy that knocked the darkspawn back and directly into the lances of herself and Commander Pellinore.   The outflanking Darkspawn were suddenly outflanked themselves, caught between those glyphs, the spears of the bulwark, the berserkers, and the lances and flails of the cavalry.

The Darkspawn ranks broke. Deprived of their mages and ogres, they fled the only way they could, away from the flames and arrows of the Phoenix Legion, away from the Korcari Wilds and deep into the open wilderness far from the sanctuary of the deep roads that had spawned them.

An hour later, it was all over.

 

Ceyrabeth wandered the battlefield, her helm cradled in her arm as she ran a gauntleted hand through her sweat drenched hair. The fighting had been intense but, crushed between the bulwark and the cavalry charge, the Horde had broken and fled the field, heading north into open countryside.   Once she and Pellinore’s lancers had met in the middle of the field they could have chased them all the way back to the Deep Roads if they’d been so inclined, but the order had been to let the Darkspawn quit the field after they retreated past the range of their distance archers.

She took stock of the battlefield with a critical eye. She saw the familiar faces of good men and women amongst the dead: mostly within the ranks of the infantry that had held the phalanx against the Horde.  The Crimson Vanguard had lost nearly a third of their berserkers (though not, she remembered with a rueful smile, Sergeant Maul) and she herself had lost a pair of knights to a combination of Darkspawn ferocity and simple bad luck.   But such were the spoils of war and not outside the realm of expectation.

What was unexpected was how relatively few injured and dead they had suffered and how catastrophic the Darkspawn losses had been.    Some of the injured members of the Legion had to be almost dug free from the crush of the enemy dead; in some cases, the corpses of the Horde were piled five or six high.  It was as complete and devastating a defeat for the enemy as any military engagement she had heard of or participated in.

Outnumbered five to one and it was a slaughter. Ceyrabeth would not have believed it unless she had seen it herself.   Like Ostagar in reverse.  What would have happened if it had been Sul in command?

“I would have waited for the reinforcements from Orlais as well the remainder of the Ferelden forces from Redcliffe and Amaranthine.”

She started at his voice but congratulated herself silently on not jumping, “How could you possibly know what I was thinking?” she asked without turning around.

“It is the most common thought of those who have survived a terrible defeat in one battle and then stand upon the field of victory in another.”

“And that is?”

Sul stood beside her now, ramrod straight hands clasped behind his back.  An effigy of perfect military poise.   “‘What if’?”

She just smiled and shook her head, past the point of being impressed with his deductive reasoning. Instead she focused on the rapidly approaching dusk and the post battle chaos around them. “How did you find me in the dark amidst all this?”

“Were I cast into the Void, I would still find you,” He shrugged slightly, “You possess a marked presence.”

She felt a flush of heat come to her cheeks but was determined to not allow herself to be affected by his words, “Your magic glass eyes would make such a task quite easy I should think.”

Sul turned his head slightly, and the intensity of his presence was palpable. “Radiance can be felt upon the skin, it can be smelt in the air and tasted upon the tongue. So it is with the light of the sun, the cast of the moon and the brightest of stars,” He turned his attention back to the field, “And so it is with individuals such as yourself.  Eyes are not required. Merely the ability to perceive radiance and experience the warmth it brings.”

This time she could not prevent the rush of heat from running through her body. It made her legs shake and she squeezed her hands into the fist so tightly that the dragonhide creaked. When was the last time she had been truly complimented? Meredith was stingy with her affection even in the best times, and it had been a long time since she had been looked on with favor by a commanding officer after…

“Thank you, sir,” She whispered.

“It is a simple truth,” Sul said with a shrug, “Much like Ostagar itself.”

“How so?” Ceyrabeth asked, clearing her throat and grateful that the intimacy of the moment had passed.

“Ostagar was lost before it was ever fought.”

Ceyrabeth frowned and shook her head, “The King and Loghain—“

“The king had no business being upon the field of war,” Sul interrupted coolly, “When you are given command, it is total and complete.   One leads or one follows and it is the man…or woman” He added with a nod towards her, “…with the ability to strategize, maintain long term focus and discipline amongst both himself and the forces in his charge that is in command,” He shook his head slightly, “And not simply a man born with a crown.”

“Meaning Loghain.”

“I am curious to know precisely what he would have done if the king had not made himself such an easy target for assassination,” Sul considered before turning his attention back to her, “But no, Loghain was not fit to lead either.”

Ceyrabeth bristled a little, “He had many victories against the Orlesians and helped bring about the independence of Ferelden.”

“He fought against the Orlesians,” Sul acknowledged evenly, “grown complacent after a ninety plus year occupation and lead by a pair of men who were both universally despised by the people of the land they were tasked with ruling as well as being incompetent in all matters military. A petty despot who cared more about the trappings of rulership than its proper execution, who deferred the majority of matters to a mage whose only interest was practicing magic outside the scrutiny of the Circle,” Sul’s smile was scornful, “No, Commander, the only advantage the Orlesians had against the ‘Hero of River Dane’ was numbers,” He nodded towards the decimation of the battlefield, “An advantage that is far from a guarantee of victory,”  He turned to face her, “And that was is why Loghain, for all his cunning, reputation and confidence is doomed against the Darkspawn: they are beyond him.  Loghain is not a king, he is not even a leader.”

“What is he then?”

“He is a soldier, forever seeing the world as an opposing army with which to engage upon the field of battle,” Sul answered in that calmly modulated voice, “Much like a hammer sees all the world as a nail,” His tone turned slightly sardonic, “Whether that happens to be the case or not. But the Horde…I have seen their will now. It is singular, united.   One could almost admire it’s ‘purity’ if such a word could be used for them: survival, conquest, consumption, unclouded by an enforced conscience, manufactured remorse or an imposed sense of morality from an outdated religious institution.” He removed a small pipe that he lit with bit of tinder. The embers caused the glass fragments of his eyes to glow scarlet and golden as he inhaled, “I imagine if Loghain had ten divisions of such men who possessed such conviction then perhaps he would stand a chance against the Horde,” He exhaled slowly, a cloud of smoke trailed away lazily, “But that isn’t what I see, not in this world as it is.”

He paused a moment in his musings, “Maric saw things differently. He was a leader for he saw the world both as it was and how it could be.”

“And you, Sul,” Ceyrabeth challenged, “What do you see when you see the world?”

Sul was quiet for a long time, so long that she feared he had perhaps not heard the question.   Then, slowly he scooped up a handful of dirt.

“I see discord, Commander,” His voice so soft it was almost lost on the wind, “Ostagar, Rainesfere, I see battles that extend beyond this one and wars that extend beyond all of them,”  He turned to face her, his foot resting near a freestanding puddle of blood, whether human or Darkspawn, Ceyrabeth could not tell in the fading light, “I see struggle and dispute beyond one man’s bid for the crown….”

He tossed a stone into the puddle. It sank with a thick plop.

“…one nation’s struggle for survival…”

Another stone was tossed into the ichor.

“…or even one Blight threatening to consume an entire continent.”

And another.

“I see Orlais, the Free Marches, Nevarra and Tevinter.   I see Par Vollen, Rivain, Antiva and The Anderfels,” He stared past the horizon to points that Ceyrabeth could neither see nor fully understand, “And I see death, commander, and such terrible suffering. I see all of Thedas on the precipice of change ready to plunge into the flames to either be consumed whole or remade,” He gestured to the battlefield, “This? This isn’t the sweeping victory you believe it to be, Ceyrabeth. This a step forward in a long journey years in the planning and years still in the undertaking,” He tapped out the pipe and his face was shrouded in darkness, “And there is only direction that leads to any point beyond extinction: forward.”

He moved past her and strode back towards camp, “Forward, commander, we have work to do.”

It was in the stillness of that moment that Ceyrabeth contemplated the awful truth of the man she had chosen to follow: there would no peace, no rest in his world and there never would be.  He had received some vision so terrible to behold that it propelled him towards a destiny that he could neither deny nor even share: a road of ash and fire and scorched earth that he was forced to trod: unceasing, unending and unyielding.

 

 


	12. The Price of Victory

The celebration was an unusually muted affair.  The Captain had prepared roasted nug, spiced wine from the Dalish, stag on steel and other traditional Fereldan dishes; all manner of delicacies that often graced the Captain’s table were now being shared amongst the men freely.   But no man drank more than a second cup of mead or wine and all eyed the horizon as darkness fell.

“Do you believe they will return?” Pellinore asked Sul within the confines of his command tent.  The massive war table draped in maps and marked with flags and icons designating various agents and factions.

“I am uncertain,” Sul confessed, “We have given them a way out. If they possess enough sense to do so, they should take it.”

“I still don’t understand why we gave them ‘a way out’ at all,” growled Ceyrabeth while bandaging a very superficial wound on her arm. “We have them fleeing for their miserable lives.”

“And if we had forced their backs against the wall with no escape they would have been fighting for their lives,” Sul countered softly, “The objective here was to deny them the southern wilds, which we have done. More importantly, we deprived them of easy access to the Deep Roads and serve to remind the Horde that not all the forces of men will fall as easily as they did at Ostagar.   Even the Horde understands morale and this battle should throw them into a state of confusion.”

“And if the Horde should take our presence more seriously and dedicate a significant force to destroy us?” Pellinore asked cautiously.

“You mean more dedicated than the several thousand darkspawn that already attempted to?”  A faint smile quirked on Sul’s lips, “Be at peace Commander. After tonight’s revels, we head northwest into the Frostback mountains. Our tributes to the dwarves of Orzammar have not gone unnoticed and the seasons are changing.   Whatever state of flux the current state of kingship, the Assembly is perfectly aware that they’re in need of the supplies we bring, however grudgingly they accept it.  Between the terrain, the token dwarven sentry presence, and the Dragon Cult the mountains should be safe enough for the time being.”

“Dragon Cult?” Ceyrabeth interjected. “What Dragon Cult?”

“My people,” Reaper Maul answered, grinning broadly. Even with half his face bandaged and his arm in a splint, he still looked capable of disassembling the remainder of the Darkspawn forces with his bare hands.

Ceryabeth gestured at Maul’s mangled, pointed ears, “The last I heard you were an escaped elf from the Dwarven provings.”

“After my daring escape, I wandered into the mountains and was taken in by a fine group of people. They taught me all kinds of useful things but I was never what you’d call a ‘true believer’.”

“Why not?”

“Because they worship a high dragon as the living manifestation of Andraste…” Sul explained quietly whilst peering at his maps. Ceyrabeth chuckled and sipped her wine. “…who defends the Temple of Sacred Ashes; last known resting place of the remains of the Prophet.”

_Clang!_

The cup dropped at the same time that the elven woman’s jaw did.

“What?!”

“Oh aye!” Maul grinned running a hand against the boar-like stubble upon his head, “Maker’s own personal piece of strumpet, make no never mind.”

“But this is the discovery of a generation! A lifetime! It must be—“ Ceyrabeth heaved a frustrated breath. She couldn’t find the words. She would cut off her ears all over again for the chance to see the Sacred Ashes of Andraste.

“You’re right,” Sul commented readily before looking up, “It must be.   But it will not be shared by the Phoenix Legion.   It is not our place to unleash knowledge of this magnitude upon the world.   That responsibility shall fall upon those who would benefit more from the prestige.”

Ceyrabeth sighed again, this time regretfully. “The remaining Grey Wardens that you’ve been keeping tabs on?”

“Just so. The discovery of the Urn of Sacred Ashes will allow the Grey Wardens to cement the alliance they need with the nobility, specifically Arl Eamon, whom our spies report has been conveniently incapacitated through his wife’s stupidity.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor need you at this juncture, Commander. For now, all that needs to be established….” Sul moved a heavy phoenix figurine over a marking over the Korcari Wilds, “…Is that the Korcari Wilds are no longer a point of access for the rest of the Horde.”

“We could just finish them off,” Ceyrabeth commented darkly.

“I will not waste time nor commit resources attacking an enemy I am not prepared to defeat,” Sul looked back at his maps, “Our men are tired, our arms in need of repair and replenishment and the enemy marches upon unfamiliar ground.  The Legion is not prepared to go to war with the Darkspawn on their own territory,” He ran a length of black silk from the phoenix figurine to a large, squat figurine located within the Frostback mountains, “We erect and establish a barricade here.”

“We may not have the manpower for that,” Atiya commented in her monotone.

“We don’t,” Sul agreed, “But the Chasind do and have a vested interest in keeping the Darkspawn from rampaging across their wilderness.”

“I’ll have ravens sent out,” Atiya confirmed.

“Between the barricade here at the Wilds and the one at Orzammar, the Darkspawn in this region are cut off. They can’t cross territory and any spawn trapped in those tunnels will remain trapped.” Sul smiled slightly, “Severed from the rest of the Horde and the call of Urthemiel, either they’ll starve to death or tear each other apart. We’ll see.”

Sul traced his fingers across the war table, “The remainder of the Horde will be forced to march across the open countryside of Ferelden without the majority of the deep roads offering safety or shortcuts”

“And that’s a good thing?” Ceyrabeth asked.

“It is if you want to motivate various warring factions to cease quarreling and unite behind a single leader and bring to end a destructive civil war,” Pellinore commented, “Say, Maric’s boy?”

“Loghain’s bid for the throne is tied to his assertion to be able to defend Ferelden against the Darkspawn without the assistance of the Grey Wardens.   We’ll see how many ravaged bannorns it takes for the “Hero of the River Dane’s” reputation to crumble before the inevitable Landsmeet.

“And how many farmers, soldiers, and innocent people will die in the process?” Ceyrabeth commented icily.

“As many as are necessary,” Sul’s tone dropped ten degrees colder than her own. Her eyes narrowed but she held her tongue. Ceyrabeth would keep reminding him, regardless of whether he wanted to hear it or not, but at this point she knew when she was being set up for another one of Sul’s humiliating verbal eviscerations.

“Blood! Death! War! Rumpy-Pumpy! Triumph!” came the roar from outside.

“Aye!” Maul toasted from within the tent, hoisting his flagon.

“What in the name of all that is holy was that?!” Ceyrabeth choked out as she released the death grip on her sword.

“Just the lads having a bit of fun,” Maul answered with a grin, “Our Crimson Vanguard; berserkers and Reavers, just blowing off the last of the battle lust,” The scarred man gave her a wicked grin, “Care to join us?”

“Um—“

“The answer to that question is ‘no’,” Sul replied without looking up from the map.

“Seconded,” Pellinore commented hoisting his own glass in silent tribute, “The Vanguard fights hard but tends to play rough with their…” He eyed Ceyrabeth warily, “…’toys’.”

“Duly noted,” Ceyrabeth replied.

“Think I’ll join my mates,” Maul said, nosily draining the contents of his mug and tossing it outside the tent before making his exit…

…and jerking to a stop as Sul took ahold of his splinted arm with an iron grip.

“Boss?” Maul swallowed a yelp of pain, “Something I can do for you?”

“Your former kinsmen of Haven are or soon will be coming into contact with a person of great personal value to the Legion and to me.   He is to be kept intact until such time as he is taken into custody of the Grey Wardens.”

Maul swallowed, “Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but will my ‘former kinsmen’ be expected to _live_ through the Grey Wardens taking possession of this man?”

“That depends entirely on their discretion and your ability to ensure the man in question is of sound mind and body when they arrive.”

Maul exhaled hard, “I’ll be heading north then, if that suits you cap’n.”

“Enjoy your evening. You’ll receive further instructions by raven.”

Maul gave the shorter man a grave bow and Sul released him without word.

“So who is this person of great value?” Ceyrabeth asked.

“A historian, scholar and writer of unparalleled insight and talent.”

“So, you’d wipe out a village for a one writer?”

The silence that answered spoke volumes.

“Of course you would,” The elven woman growled and refilled his glass, even though she much would have preferred pouring the wine into his lap. “How do you sleep with all that blood on your hands?”

“Fitfully,” Sul brought his face back up from the map, “How do you sleep with the memory of all your fear and hesitation haunting you with every time you turned your back and stalled, to the suffering and torment of others?”

“Fitfully,” She sneered, trying to match the Captain’s acerbity. But anger welled up inside, became too much to ignore and Ceyrabeth brought the pitcher of wine down hard on the heavy table, “Maker curse you Sul!” She snarled.

Sul said nothing, instead bringing the dagger that he had been using to traces across the map up to his face.   He slid the tip into the wraps around his eyes and indicated the glass underneath with a few short taps.

 “If I may,” Pellinore cleared his throat diplomatically, returning focus to the matters at hand, “After Reaper Maul has successfully completed his assignment, where should he reconnoiter and await further orders?”

“Send him to the Spoiled Princess and remind him not to kill any of the patrons in drinking contests. He can assume the responsibilities of whomever we currently have stationed there.”

“That’s a dumb name for a tavern,” Ceyrabeth scoffed trying to lighten the tension.

“They can’t all be named after tarot cards,” Pellinore commented wryly.

“It was the first card I drew that I thought would translate well into a tavern name,” Sul explained wryly, “No one in Kirkwall knew what a ‘Heirophant’ was.”

“It means ‘priest’, doesn’t it?” Ceyrabeth asked with a frown.

“I stand corrected.”

“In regards to our latest intel from Lake Calenhad,” Pellinore consulted a scroll, “It does appear that the Grey Wardens intend to venture to the Tower of Kinloch and not seek out Arl Eamon first.”

“Unfortunate,” Sul sighed, “What they’ll face in the Tower will task them mightily.”

“Supporting Uldred in retrospect—,” Pellinore mused.

“-was a sound decision back when he was a Libertarian with delusions of grandeur,” Sul commented bitterly, “Unfortunately, the situation has changed. At last count, he allowed both their ‘training demons’ to slip the leash, augmenting that sloth demon’s power tenfold and becoming a Pride abomination in the process.”

“Sweet Maker!” Ceyrabeth gaped as her Templar training assessed the situation and recoiled in horror.   Her anger quickly followed, “And you supported that lunatic?  When the great Drachaen Sul errs, he does so in a grand scope it seems!”

“True,” Sul admitted placidly, “Fortunately I have also usually been able to improvise an alternate approach,” He stepped away from the table facing Pellinore, “Contact the Sanguinaries and inform them…”

And then he stumbled. Just a little, but it was enough.   “Drachaen-“  Ceyrabeth moved as instinct overwhelmed indignation, and stopped as Atiya supported the older man carefully.

“You have not slept in three days,” Atiya informed him calmly, “Nor eaten a full meal in two.  You have just orchestrated a major engagement with overwhelming odds and emerged victorious.”

“Just one battle, my old friend,” Sul placed his hand over the Qunari’s “The war continues.”

“The war must wait,” Atiya said firmly, “Please allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

“Thank you for your concern, Atiya, as always,” Sul stood erect and unsupported and continued as if uninterrupted, “Contact the Sanguinaries and inform them to begin preparation to contact a spirit within the Tower of Kinloch,” Sul gestured out towards the battlefield currently littered with corpses, “They should have plenty of raw material to work with.”

“Still, the gathering of the necessary ‘material’,” Pellinore repressed a shudder, “And the inscription of the proper wards and glyphs will take time, sir,” He flashed Ceyrabeth a look.

“Time which could best be spent recuperating from battle?”   Ceyrabeth finished helpfully.

A ghostly smile flickered across Sul’s face, “Very well, I know perfectly well when I am outnumbered. I should like to check on our injured _Viddathari_ friend and then I will retire for the evening.”

“This way, sir,” Atiya directed Sul away from the massive war table and his two commanders who exchanged mutual looks.

_One day he will push too hard and break…or those around him will._

It was a matter of chance neither wanted to wager on…. or even be anywhere around when it happened.

.:*:.

A single knock.

“Enter,” Mother Gisele said.

Sul entered the tent, “Ah, captain, please come in,” She scrutinized him carefully. The dark blotches and stains of his tainted eyes were spreading from under his bindings across his face like a spider web, “How are you feeling?”

“I am as well as can be expected,” Sul replied evenly, “Please, you needn’t stare with such intensity. I assure you whatever marks I bear look worse than they actually are.

Giselle’s eyes widened, “Maker! You can actually see me looking at you?”

Sul’s smile was small and sincere, “You are a woman of fathomless compassion, Mother Giselle. I do not need eyes to feel your concerned gaze upon me.”

“Of course,” Giselle bowed her head, her hands folded in a display of humility, “Well played, Captain.”

“I didn’t realize we were playing a game,” Sul frowned at the soldiers lying in the cots, “These men weren’t playing games upon the field today.”

“Men like these? No,” She checked a bandaged brow and turned her gaze back on Sul, “Men like you, Captain Drachaen, are always playing games.”  Her tone was chiding but gently so.

“There are no ‘men like me’, Mother Giselle. There is only me.”

“To be unique is to be alone.” She sympathized as she wrung out a cloth and turned to address a nurse, “Sister Petrice, please see that those poultices are infused with fresh elfroot hourly and alert me at the first hint of infection or taint.”

“At once, your reverence,” The young sister bowed stiffly and hurried to obey

“That one worries me,” Mother Giselle murmured before giving herself a shake and returning her attention to Sul. “Uniqueness is both a burden and a curse: a double-sided gift, like a coin,”

“Or double edged, like a dagger. It cuts both ways, like most of the Maker’s gifts.”

“I prefer to think of them as blessings personally,” Mother Giselle confided as she changed a pair of bandages upon a wounded soldier

“It’s only fitting that a woman in your position would see it so.”

“Oh it not a question of position, Captain, but rather faith that I see it as so,” She washed her hands in a basin of crimson water.

“A matter of _dis_ position then?”

“Ah!” she laughed, “Very good.”

He bowed his head in acceptance of the compliment, “I’m here to see Tallis.”

Giselle’s smile broadened, “Of course,” She led him towards the back of the tent and out to a small tent separate from the rest, “Your quick action most likely saved her life. It certainly saved her arm.”

Tallis lay unconscious in an oversized bed complete with ornate pillows, fox-fur blankets and a headboard carved with great antlered beasts, “She will awaken thinking she has been crowned Empress of Orlais,” Giselle chuckled, “Wherever did you find such an extravagance?”

“Halamshiral.”

The pair was silent for a long time and then, “I cannot tell if you are bluffing, _messere_ , about this bed being from the Winter Palace itself, but either way remind me not to play cards with you.”

“Bluffing is all in the eyes, your Reverence.”

“Just so.”

“Mmmm,” A new voice stirred, “You guys talk a lot.”

Sul smiled and bowed, “ _Ataas shokra_ , Tallis.”

The young elf girl frowned, “Your Qunlat is awful,” She mumbled, “And your accent makes you sound ridiculous.”

Sul’s smile broadened as he turned to Mother Giselle, “I believe our patient is coming to. Please fetch whatever tools and materials you will need to aid in her recovery.”

“I would be willing to wager, young man, that I was tending to injured young elves whilst you were still in swaddling clothes and surely don’t need to be told the obvious,” Mother Giselle shot back impishly before departing.

She did not see the shadow cross Sul’s face that banished all warmth from it.

“You’d lose.” He murmured quietly.

“I like her,” Tallis commented, “She’s feisty.”

Sul took a moment to replace the smile on his face before turning around, “Like minds, I’m sure,” He sat on the far edge of the large mattress.

“You know,” Tallis commented biting her lower lip, “You could sit closer.”

“Admittedly,” He gestured at the binding on her arm, “But you’re in quarantine. You could be infectious.”

“Oh bullshit,” She groaned in pain as she adjusted herself amongst the nest of pillows, “Next you’ll be telling me you’re going to put on a dress and declare yourself _Aqun-Athlok_.”

“Anything is possible, I suppose.”

She stopped in mid-adjustment to stare at the man, “I would pay coin to see that.”

“Save your coin,” Gently Sul took her arm and undid the bandage, running his fingers lightly over the exposed wound, causing Tallis to hiss in pain, “Apologies.”

“No, it’s…it’s all right,” She whispered.

“It seems free of the Taint, but there is only one way to be certain.”

“What?” Tallis managed a grin that manifested a great deal more tremulous than intended, “Are you going to kiss it and make it all better?”

Sul looked momentarily taken aback at her boldness before allowing himself a quiet chuckle, “My days of dispensing kisses to injured young girls are far behind me,” He began to unwrap the bandages around his eyes.

“My loss, I’m certain,” Tallis winked then recoiled as Sul’s bindings fell away “ _Asay hassatra maa_!” She gasped as she took his disfigurement, “Your face.”

Sul regarded her, his glass eyes reshaping into the shapes of pupils and corneas, yellow streaked with purple both light and dark, looking like nothing so much as a stained-glass window come to life, “It is a price paid for a choice made at a moment when there was no other choice that could be made and no lesser price would suffice,” He answered as his glass eyes shifted and reformed peering at the wound.

“How very Qunari,” Tallis commented with a weak laugh.

Sul looked back up into Tallis’ face and the girl could not help but recoil at the bulbous tumors and blackened scar tissue, “I see no sign of Taint,” He quickly replaced his bindings, “I will inform Mother Giselle that you may be removed from quarantine.”

“Look,” Tallis reached out to stop him from leaving, touched his arm, “I’m sorry, it was a just…a shock, especially up close,” She frowned at his face, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is not your responsibility to apologize for, nor would I make a different decision if revisited with the same choice,” Sul shrugged, “I did what I had to do.”

“Guess so, but still,” Tallis shivered at the conviction in the man’s voice. He was utterly indifferent to his own torment in the face of whatever conviction drove him.   It was like listening to her old master speak again of the Qun only more so, “Guess that explains the lack of kissing young girls.”

Sul allowed her to lighten the mood, “One of many factors,” He reached over to adjust her pillows, “Although truthfully, any kisses given to young girls were always strictly paternal in nature-“  He stopped abruptly.

“Oh, you mean like a daugh-!”

Sul ripped the pillow from under the girl’s head with his free hand and gripping her head with the other, slammed the base of her skull against one of the carved points of the hardwood. Tallis’s eyes and mouth opened wide in shock even as he dropped the pillow and clamped his hand over her nose and mouth and pulled her close in a tight embrace.

“I am so sorry, _kadan_ ,” He said as he squeezed the air out of her, “But some secrets are too close to the heart to reveal,” Her eyes were wide in surprise, unable to comprehend what was happening to her or be afraid, “And you are a ghost, one that is far too easy to share truths with.”

Tallis stared at him uncomprehendingly, “The blame is mine,” He whispered fiercely, “And so is the responsibility.   And this I must do this with my eyes open.”

The young girl’s surprised eyes closed as they rolled backed into her head and were still.

Hurriedly, Sul removed his hands from her body and tore the bindings from his eyes. He could still see the spark of life in her just there above her breastbone.  He brought both his hands up, made a fist and brought them down as hard as he dared upon her chest, “Giselle!” He shouted.

Giselle and Petrice entered a moment later, “What in the Maker--?”

“A head injury, we didn’t see it,” Sul explained hurriedly, “Run to the alchemist and bring me back frozen lightning dust in a vial. Quickly!”

“But-?” Sister Petrice began.

“Do it child!” Mother Giselle commanded and the other woman hurried to obey, “How did we not see this?”

“The fault is mine,” Sul confessed, “The helm she was wearing, my helm, is custom made for my head. When she fell, she must have struck her head on an inner protrusion.   We did not see any evidence of injury because she was kept unconscious.”

“Maker!”   Giselle swore and continued to check the girl’s heartbeat, “Her breathing is shallow and I am having trouble finding her heart beat.”

“Here!” Sister Petrice burst back into the tent and handed the items to Sul, “But why not find a mage?”

Sul stripped the blankets and bedclothes and poured a pitcher of water all over Tallis’ unmoving body, “Because by the time you find one in a camp full of wounded soldiers with enough mana to be of any use, she’ll be long dead!”

“What are you doing?”

“Dwarves do not have access to sorcery for their healing needs,” He gripped the flask of storm shard dust over Tallis’ still chest shining wetly in the torchlight, “They have learned to improvise. Things such as harnessing the power of lightning.”

“What?!”

Sul brought the flask down hard on Tallis chest. It disintegrated in a dazzling explosion of light and glass and propelled Sul to the far side of the tent, smoke rising from his form.

And with a gasp, Tallis sat bolt upright in bed and began coughing, eyes wide.

“By the Maker!” Mother Giselle quickly bundled the girl up and cradled her, “Go and find a healer, anyone. Now!”  Petrice hurried to obey.

“Why,” Tallis coughed, “Am I naked, wet, and smell like a burning dog?”

“You suffered a blow to the head in battle child,” Mother Giselle examined her critically, “What do you remember?”

Tallis coughed and frowned before shaking her head, “Nothing.  Ow!” She touched the back of her head and drew back a splotch of blood, “Except my head hurts and my arm hurts.”

“You struck your head twice. Once when wearing my helm and against just now upon the headboard when the electricity passed through your body, causing you to jerk like so,” Sul explained as he got stiffly to his feet.

“ _Vashedan_!” Tallis quickly covered herself up with the scorched, wet fur blankets, blushing furiously, “Uh, hello there, Captain Sul. How are you?”

“Pleased to see that you still remain amongst the living,” Sul bowed formerly.  

Tallis took that opportunity to sniff the blankets, “Ugh! At least I know what smells like seared dog fur.”

“Your bedding will be seen to and you’ll remain under Mother Giselle’s care,” Sul turned to the Revered Mother, “I trust that will be suitable, your Reverence?”

“Perfectly,” Giselle answered.

“Excellent. Please keep me appraised of our young friend’s condition.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Don’t be a stranger!” Tallis called out as he left before looking down at her state, “Just let me freshen up first!” She added.

Sul didn’t say anything as he departed the tent and turned the corner.  Only after thirty paces did he examine the seared flesh of his hands: scorched tissue with bits of glass embedded into it.

He thought about Tallis and the way her eyes looked as he murdered her to safeguard his secrets and those that they protected.

His fists clenched and blood flowed freely.

“A choice made when no other choice was available,” He confessed to the night as his only justification for his actions.

.:*:.

“I am the only one who tends the Captain,” The Qunari woman stated with as much irritation as one of the Tranquil could manage.

“And tell me what happens when you drop because he pushes himself like a madman and you can’t keep pace?” Ceyrabeth shot back.

“That will not happen,” Atiya replied, “I have been his longest companion and have managed to remain at his side throughout whatever ordeal he may endure.  I have had years to establish both trust and reliability,” Her eyes narrowed, “Unlike some.”

Ceyrabeth gritted her teeth; apparently even Tranquil could engage in a battle of wits, emotions or no, with the best of them, “Oh? Then what happens if you take an arrow or blade the wrong way and you’re the only one who knows how to help him?” Ceyrabeth snapped. “Those… wounds…the scars on his face…you need a back-up!”

“The commander raises a valid point.”

Ceyrabeth started at the sound of Sul’s voice as he materialized behind her. Naturally Atiya didn’t even blink. “Ser Ceyrabeth was just leaving, Captain.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Ceyrabeth replied firmly. “Ser Ceyrabeth was making the point that more than one person should know how to squire for you, Captain. And since I spent most of my knighthood at Knight-Commander Meredith’s side, I’m an obvious choice.”

“The captain requires more than an armor polisher, Commander.” Atiya stated matter of factly. “He requires specialized surgical care that is both enormously complex and intricately dangerous.   One slip-“

“I don’t ‘slip’.” Ceyrabeth said softly with fire in her eyes. “And I know he needs surgical care, it’s not as if I haven’t seen…”

“Teach her.”

Both women stopped cold. “Captain?” Atiya asked, as if unsure she had heard correctly.

Sul shrugged off his coat and Ceyrabeth, who was closest, took it from him. He sat in the nearest chair with a faint sigh. “Demonstrate how to cleanse and treat the wounds. Ser Ceyrabeth is correct: you are the only one trained in the arts of medicine that I require to maintain my well-being.  Should something happen to you, it would place my health in jeopardy, which would leave the Phoenix Legion without adequate leadership and that cannot be permitted,” He settled against the chair, “We shall start with something simple,” With a faint tearing sound that was still audible in the confines of the tent, Sul forced his fingers open and apart, “Burns and shrapnel.  Bring the coral please.”

Ceyrabeth, to her credit, went about her duties without the faintest hint of either gloating or flinching as Atiya did as she was told without further comment, opening an enormous wooden cabinet and removing a pouch, “Coral?” She asked, eyeing the jagged shards quizzically.

“Coral,” Sul confirmed before holding out his palm to Atiya, “Atiya, demonstrate please.”

Comprehension came to Ceyrabeth a moment too late, “Oh Maker, you cannot be ser-!”

S-C-R-A-P-E!

The elven girl’s teeth went on edge as Atiya dragged the sharp material across Sul’s palm, gouging out bits of glass and scraping off great strips of scorched flesh.   The sound was indescribable as Atiya meticulously went about her work, her other hand keeping Sul’s palm exposed and in place with Qunari strength to combat the occasional reflex to pull away.

Bits of mangled tissue and glass fell away and soon the palm was raw, red, and slick with blood.

“To ward against infection?” Atiya asked.

“Just use the alcohol,” Sul instructed, “We’ll save the Azure Tears for the more…” He gestured at his face, “…extraordinary wounds.”

Atiya gestured to the cabinet, “Top shelf to the right,” she instructed Ceyrabeth, “And a clean cloth.”

Ceyrabeth fumed her way to the cabinet and rooted though the labyrinth of salves, poultices and potions until she found a bottle filled with clear liquid.  A quick inhalation confirmed that it was what she sought.

“Isn’t this going to sting like the Void itself?” Ceyrabeth asked handing the bottle and cloth to the Qunari. By way of response, Atiya splashed a liberal amount of the liquid on Sul’s exposed skin and clamped the cloth in place.

Sul bit his lip to suppress a scream, “Yes.” He gasped, “Well done, Atiya,” He choked out.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Pain is a sensation,” Sul explained to the gaping Ceyrabeth, “Heat. Cold. Hunger. Fatigue. All just sensations that can be repressed, controlled, and disconnected when need be.”

“So you feel nothing?”  The elf gestured at Atiya, “Like her?”

“Less than myself,” Atiya commented matter-of-factly, “I have not managed to achieve the state of perpetual numbness, the deadening of nerves that allows the Captain to endure the trauma of his condition.”

“If the choices are go mad from the pain or allow yourself to become numb to sensation…,” Sul tilted his head towards Atiya, “…the choice would be obvious to any.”

“Not to me!” Ceyrabeth retorted, “I would rather suffer a thousand different torments than live my life dead and unfeeling!”

“To achieve what I must,” Sul stated in that same calm tone that so infuriated her, “I possess all the ‘feeling’ I require,” Atiya gripped his other hand and positioned the coral. Beth tried to bite her tongue, but then she saw the captain tense. He _felt_. No matter what he said, even after all he had gone through, the pain still mattered.

“Stop!” Ceyrabeth’s tone caused them both to cease and regard her, “Enough. For love of Andraste, _enough._ ”

“This method is the most expedient,” Atiya pointed out mildly.

“I don’t give a damn!” Ceyrabeth snarled as she turned her attention to Sul, “Will you or will you not trust me with your care? Have I proven myself enough for that?”

“You have,” Sul said simply.

“Then get out of my bloody way!” She shouldered the Qunari aside and rummaged through the cabinet, returning with her hands full of creams and salves. “Maker, it’s as though you enjoy tormenting yourself,” She knelt at Sul’s feet. “May I have your left hand please?” He offered it to her. Ceyrabeth cast aside the piece of coral with a look of disgust and instead ordered Atiya to find her a small pair of tweezers.

During several long minutes she meticulously purged the wound of all glass. After it was clean, she dabbed it with elfroot salve and dawn lotus balm to numb the pain and carefully snipped the already deadening skin away from the angry burns. “Atiya, please hand me those Orlesian silk squares,” She asked without taking her eyes off her work. They were the softest, and the best quality that she had seen in the cabinet.

“Those are reserved for his eyes,” Atiya pointed out.

“He. Has. Spares.” Ceyrabeth bit out. There was a beat where Atiya must have looked to Sul for acknowledgement, and then she heard her heavy tread go. When she came back Ceyrabeth reached up, smiling as the desired cloth was placed into her hand.   She rewrapped both the Captain’s hands in soft linens and silks.  When she had finished, Ceyrabeth held his repaired hand in hers for a moment, wondering how in the world he had managed to cut himself so badly on the short walk from the healer’s tent to his own when his soft voice brought her out.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“There is enough pain in the world without wantonly causing more to you,” Ceyrabeth looked up into Sul’s mutilated face, her dark eyes sad and shadowed. “I will not abide deliberate suffering, not on my watch.”

“Indeed,” He stated with a hint of deference, “So you shall not.”

“Besides, there is more to you than agony and will,” She continued. “What about the things that make you human? You’ve shown compassion, and humor; things I wouldn’t have believed you capable of had I not seen them with my own eyes. What about affection? Love?”

Sul went still then and his expression softened.

“Yes,” He finally said, “Yes, I have loved,” He turned his attention on the other woman, “The fact of the matter is that I have only loved one woman, only one, my entire life.”

“Vio-“Ceyrabeth began remembering his moment of delirium in the bog.

Sul held up a hand, halting her words. “Yes.   Her,” He closed his hand into a tight fist that made the bandages strain.

Ceyrabeth’s voice was quiet, respectful. “What happened to her?”

“I was given an impossible choice,” Sul replied and that perfect expression of calm collection slipped, just a bit, to reveal something damaged and thoroughly human, “To live in peace with her and ours only to be consumed by the world’s ending or to relinquish my place at her side so that I may instead remake the world and in doing so preserve both her and all that was precious to her.”

“And that’s why you’re here? To ‘remake the world’ for her?”

“No,” Sul whispered, “No, not just her,” He looked down at his hands, “She held a love for the world and all its inhabitants. For the Maker and all of Creation,” He inhaled deeply, “And I have accepted the duty of protecting that which she loves with just these two hands, though I know it has taken me far from her and what was ours, never to return,” Sul regarded Ceyrabeth, “You were a Templar. You know that duty requires sacrifice.   What would you sacrifice to keep all that you hold precious in this world whole?”

Ceyrabeth didn’t have an answer: the enormity of it all was just too much. She touched his knee; a fleeting gesture of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yes,” Sul said regaining his poise, “I have made my choice and would make it again if called upon to do so.”

He was gone, she could tell.   Gone back under that frozen surface that he dwelt under, to hide or survive, she couldn’t decide and right now, it didn’t matter.  _We all did what we had do—what we were forced to—to survive._ Beth could almost hear the Captain’s voice in her head, and again felt the heat of his hands on her head as a choice she had once made was undone by his will and power.

“Commander, you may release my hand now,” Sul instructed, his tone quiet.

“Oh,” She dropped her hands to her lap, feeling a flush start up in her cheeks. “I’m sorry Captain.” He looked at her bemusedly for a moment until she realized that she was still kneeling at his feet. Ceyrabeth rose quickly, offered a courteous bow that also served to hide her embarrassment.

“Can I offer you any further assistance, Captain?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then I will take my leave.” She cleaned up her doctoring supplies and replaced them in the cabinet, taking care not to let her agitation show, before heading towards the mess tent, cursing herself the whole way. What had possessed her to stand toe to toe with Atiya over such a thing as the right to cleanse tainted wounds on a man she wasn’t even sure she…she just wasn’t sure of period.

The answer came to her in a patch of earth upon a battlefield, a pool of blood and a ravaged face resigned to fate. Maybe she had been wrong, but it seemed like a terribly lonely thing, to walk the path he walked with only a Tranquil tending to him.

 _Soft._ She thought in disgust.  _You’re going soft._ And yet…she couldn’t help it. “Focus.” She gritted through her teeth.

 


	13. Through Another's Eyes

Sul waited until he could no longer hear Ceyrabeth’s footsteps before laying his head back against the chair with a weary sigh.

“Captain!”

Sul stood and turned to face the voice, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, “Yes, Commander, what is it?”

Pellinore saluted crisply, “Sir, we’ve taken a prisoner from the Darkspawn Horde.   We believe that it is…requesting parley.”

Sul’s eyes narrowed in thought, then nodded, “Show me.”

Pellinore escorted Sul to the far side of the camp. It wasn’t difficult to spot the prisoner; it was surrounded by a ring of uneasy men, including more than a few of the Legion’s Gray Wardens.

“Stand aside,” Pellinore commanded.  The men with spears readied and bows aimed did so, reluctantly, and Sul stood before the prisoner.   Its visage possessed a distinctly human cast and its posture was regal as any royal that ever walked Thedas. The Darkspawn was broad shouldered, as one would expect a creature like him to be, and a whole hand span taller than the Captain.   As he shifted, there was the rustle of cloth and the clink of metal.

“ _Na via lerno Victoria_ ,” The Darkspawn spoke in a rumbling voice.

Sul frowned around his bandaged eyes, “Remove the restraints from the prisoner,” He commanded with a tight smile, “Chains are not going to make any difference to this being.”

“Respectfully, sir, we still don’t know anything about…it.” Pellinore replied.

“We know that he hails from Tevinter from its speech,” He turned to face the commander, “And he is listening—and comprehending—every word we’re saying,” Turning his attention back to the Darkspawn, “He’s been captured by a foreign force bearing a standard he does not recognize so he is exploiting the ignorance of his captors and hoping to learn as much as he can about us by playing the part of the savage and studying us until he has learned what it is he needs to know: in this case, who is in command of these forces,” Sul turned his bandaged eyes towards the Darkspawn,  “ _Hoc est rectam_?”

The Darkspawn’s distorted features twisted into a smile, “Entirely,” The chains around his wrists began to rust and decay and in moments, he was free. “Your Tevene is strange, but I understand it.”

“There is much that you must find strange in the world as it is now,” He beckoned, “Come and we shall discuss it.”

Ceyrabeth was off-duty when the Darkspawn was captured, but Pellinore wasted no time in seeking her out. He found her in the mess hall, blearily eating a late lunch. “Commander…” He sat beside her, voice pitched low.

Ceyrabeth eyed his expression, sighed. “I’m not going to like this one bit am I?”

“The Captain is entertaining an…unusual guest.”

“How surprising. Who is it? The queen of Orlais, a bereskarn…Avvar?”

“A talking Darkspawn. From Tevinter.”

“Of course it is.” She almost waved him off and told him where to take his jokes but the look on his face convinced her otherwise. “You’re serious. Did the Captain summon me?”

“No.”

“So you’re telling me because…?”

“Because you’re the only Templar of any significant rank that we have. Former Templar,” He hastily corrected.

‘The thing wields magic?”

“It does.”

“Better and better.” She picked up her sandwich and put it back down again with a sigh. “And exactly how are we treating this talking Tevinter darkspawn mage, Commander Pellinore?”

“With the utmost of hospitality.”

“Of course. Because mana blocking chains and a full complement of guards would be rude.” Ceyrabeth raised her eyes to the heavens for a brief moment. “Please, Maker, come quickly,” she offered a brief prayer.

“You’ll go?”

“I’ll go. But first…” She crossed the tent, had a quick word with the cook who gave Ceyrabeth a nod and a smile before busying herself with her task.  A moment passed before she passed a heavy tray laden with fruits, cakes and all the accoutrements for making tea. Pellinore gave a quick look. “I figured the Captain would have ordered something, if the darkspawn was a guest as you say he is.  Lead the way, Commander.”

Ceyrabeth and Pellinore waited at the door of the tent until they heard a break in the murmur of conversation. “Come in, Commander Vallorin….Commander Pellinore.” Sul, in that uncanny way he had, knew they were there. They entered as they were bid. Ceyrabeth had to bite the inside of her lip at the sight of the monster across the table from the captain, but the pain helped her focus.

“Some refreshments, Captain. For you and your guest,” Pellinore kept his voice steady, almost neutral. Only the look in his eyes as he faced the Darkspawn heralded something amiss. Ceyrabeth carried the tray to the table and Pellinore set out its contents before taking the heavy tray back to where a small kitchen area had been set up.

The Darkspawn had tilted his head as Ceyrabeth approached, and finally spoke, “Your blood…it sings. You are a…Templar?”

Ceyrabeth glanced at Sul, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes, I was.”

“And you still consume lyrium?”

“I do.” Curiosity got the better of her. “You know of the Templar Order?”

A look of disdain twisted the creature’s lips. “I have…encountered them. Long ago.”

“Fascinating.” Ceyrabeth couldn’t stay in this creature’s vicinity a second longer, not with him staring at her with that…hunger. She turned to Sul. “Tea, sir?”

For a moment, she thought he would dismiss her but then he moved his cup closer in response. She silently poured, then turned to the darkspawn and filled his as well before stepping well back into the shadows.

“Normally, I would offer a guest such as yourself a bottle of Aggregio Pavali,” Sul commented, “But my larder is otherwise occupied with the victory celebration.   This tea however should be a familiar taste of home for you,” Sul settled opposite the creature at his dinner table.

The Darkspawn took the cup in his hand and sipped thoughtfully. “Coltsfoot, burdock, orange and lemon peel,” The creatures features twisted into a smile, “I do not remember whatever time I may have spent in Tevinter.   My recollections begin and end with my awakening within the depths of the deep.”

“Indeed?   Curious.  It is an old recipe originating from the Laetans to soothe their throats and voices after hours spent chanting.   It was considered so effective that even the Altus adopted it,” Sul smiled thinly, “despite such humble origins.”

“It must be, what is the expression? ‘Before my time’.”

“I would say more likely after your time,” Sul countered smoothly. “Tell me; what year is it?”

The Darkspawn sneered, “I do not abide by the Chantry; its laws, its customs…”

“Its calendar,” Sul finished for him, “Neither do I.  Case in point: the year is two-thousand thirty-four.”

The Darkspawn considered for a moment then nodded, “That coincides with my own findings,” His monstrous features twisted in suspicion, “But whilst I may or may not be of Tevinter, you are certainly no magus; you are _soporati_ at most. By what right do you negotiate with me?”

Sul considered a moment, “The fact that my soldiers and I have annihilated your southern forces grants me said right.  More tea?”

“Please,” The Darkspawn’s tone was somewhat more deflated.

Sul poured the tea, “Now that we have exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, may I ask who I have the honor of addressing?”

“Of course,” The Darkspawn’s poise became regal once more, “I am known as ‘The Architect’.”

“A title bestowed?”

“Assumed,” The Architect corrected him, “And yourself?”

Sul’s expression matched the Architect’s, “I possess many names. Amongst the Tevinter, I directed the siege of Ath Velanis to liberate it from the demons that had taken possession of it and was awarded the Order of Thalasian and the title of ‘ _Dominus Bellum’_. I would prefer it however if you would simply address me as ‘Captain Sul’.”

The Architect set his teacup down upon the table heavily. “A ’warlord’. Yes, that would explain a great deal. My kin had believed," The creature opposite Sul rumbled, "That our numbers and our inherent prowess in battle would grant us victory, as it had at Ostagar.   It is part of why I pursued your forces so vigorously."

"Your kin were mistaken," The Captain replied calmly, "Which is part of why they are dead."

“Indeed,” The Architect replied, “Your ways are not the ways of those who were in command of the forces in Ostagar.  Those men were burdened the Chantry’s ways and customs.”

“Along with an overinflated sense of patriotism,” Sul added, “Hence the lack of cavalry.  ‘Too akin to the Orlesian Chevaliers some six decades’ past for the liking of the commander.”

“To remain so…chained to the past at the expense of the present.”

 “To say nothing of the future.”

“Yes, the future.”

“I have always found that diplomacy, negotiation, is the process of finding points of commonality and building upon them.”

“And what is it we are negotiating?”  The Darkspawn asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Sul settled back against his chair with his bandaged gaze peering over his steepled fingers, “What you’ve already expressed an interest in: the future.”

“Whose?”

“That remains to be determined in its entirety,” Sul examined the Architect thoughtfully, “Have you dined?”

The architect barked a short laugh, “I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed mortal food,” His expression darkened, “Do you plan on this being my last meal?   Will you murder me here at your table?”

“Well,” Sul replied evenly, getting up and moving towards a small kitchen area, “Certainly not before the main course,” He smiled politely before pulling on a pair of gloves.

“I thought you had said that your larder was bare, its spoils divided up amongst your men to celebrate their slaughter of my kind!”

“We are at war, Architect,” Sul said his voice abruptly cold, “The Blight threatens to consume all of Thedas-“

“That is not my doing!” The Darkspawn retorted angrily getting out of his chair, his fists clenched.

“-and all of natural born life along with it!” Sul continued on, “We can compare atrocities or we can dine.   The decision is yours.”

The two men held their ground against each other, their expressions unfathomable.

“I have no interest in dining with a man that hides in his identity,” The Architect gestured to the wrappings around Sul’s eyes, “You: you claim titles and honors bestowed upon the highest ranking mages in Tevinter, but you are no magus.  Properly you are little more than _soporati_ : a mercenary.    I have no more patience for games and riddles, for pleasantries or mysteries.   Speak plainly: what manner of being are you and what are your intentions towards me and my kind?”

Setting down the tray of ingredients he had been preparing, Sul looked thoughtful, “Do you dream, Architect?”

The question took the other being aback, “I meditate and there was a time that the visions of the ancient gods and those of my brethren were…,” He struggled for the word, “…shared with me, but if you speak of a journey of my own in sleep to the Fade, no I cannot say that I have experienced that.”

“No dreams of your own,” Sul began to unwrap the bindings around his eyes; they were sticky and soiled with a viscous substance, “I can relate to that. For myself, my dreams are but continuations of my conscious mind, my waking thoughts.  They are mine to control and direct as I see fit, but they offer neither restoration nor sanctuary.”

“You are no _somniari_!” The Darkspawn said with accusation thick in his distorted voice, “I would sense such power!”

“No,” Sul admitted as he turned away and finished unwrapping the sodden wrappings and placing them on the table next to him, “As you can see, _amicus_ …” He returned his gaze to the Architect, “…I am something else entirely.”

“ _Fasta Vass_!” The Architect hissed in shock and stumbled away from Sul as if he had grown a second head and begun breathing fire, “ _Quassus Oculari_!

Sul’s glass eyes rotated and swiveled, taking on a various shape, streaked with black, blue and yellow with flecks of green, “You’re familiar with the ritual of Shattered Sight?”

“As one would be familiar with the breaching of the Golden City!”  The creature looked badly shaken, “It was _incaensor_ : too dangerous to be pursued!” Shock was rapidly giving way to righteous indignation and anger.

“Three mages died and one went mad within a week,” Sul confirmed, “Yes, I’m familiar with the history as well.

“How long…?”

“Nearly twenty years now.”

“But the components for the ritual have been lost for an age.”

“They were found,” Sul shrugged, “My associates gathered them.”

“And the shards of the eluvian?”

“Discovered in Brescilian forest by said associates. A few discreet shards were collected before other parties intervened.”

The Architect peered at him with a mixture of curiosity and anger, “And what do you…see?”

“I see the world bereft of the Veil: The Fade and the waking world are intermingled and blur, like two pictures overlaid upon each other.   The physical appears like holes in the air or in the water and the Fade flows all around.   I see the connection to the Fade all living things share. Through that connection I see their hopes and dreams, their fears and furies.  Occasionally I am granted glimpses of visions both past and future.   I see spirits as they are and the demons some become and though they may attempt to hide in flesh, stone or iron, no spirit can hide its presence from me. In the world as I perceive it, there is no separation between waking and dreaming, no division between ‘our world’ and ‘the other world’. It is all simply one reality, one form of perception.  It is at times indescribably beautiful and other times hopelessly terrifying and it shifts from second to second to second,” Sul proceeded to work with the ingredients on the table.

“How do you keep from being overwhelmed?”

Sul shrugged as he removed a large paper-wrapped parcel from below the stone countertop and placed it carefully upon the polished surface, “As in everything else that is attainable in life: A matter of focus,” He unwrapped the parcel revealing an enormous butchered thigh of some great beast before returning his gaze to his guest, “For instance, if I wish to focus on the events occurring in the tangible world, I will the shards into a fashion that will accommodate me,” He frowned in concentration and slowly his eyes assumed the shape of normal eyes: pupils, irises, sclera all in perfect detail and composed of colored glass that reacted to the light as normal eyes would.

“Alternatively,” Sul relaxed and the shape of his eyes disintegrated into random geometric shapes and shards, still consisting of blacks and blues with the yellow having faded away, “perceiving the Fade requires less focus,” He felt around for a sharp knife and deftly sliced the meat open, unfolding it like parchment and rubbing various spices into the flesh before stuffing it full of dried fruit, folding it over, and tying it closed with twine.

The Architect’s dubiousness had given away to anger as Sul barded the leg of meat with strips of cured pork “Forgive my incredulity, Captain Sul,” His tone dripping with equal parts sarcasm and scorn, “But you are speaking of a ritual that not even the greatest of minds of Tevinter or anyone else could solve.  How am I to know that this is not some clever illusion? A parlor trick to intimidate me during what you refer to as our ‘negotiations’?”

Sul finished wrapping the treated meat in, of all things, an enormous leaf before looking up at his guest, “How indeed,” He removed his gloves as he approached the Architect, “There is another old saying, Orlesian in origin: Seeing is believing’,” He held out his hands to the Darkspawn, “So, see for yourself.”

The Architect looked at him askance, “What are you suggesting?”

“You entered the minds of your fellow Darkspawn,” Sul took his seat opposite the Architect, “It will be a simple task to enter my own,” His entire posture was relaxed, as if he were suggesting a game of cards with an old friend, “I believe you will find that a way has been made for you.”

The Architect, more curious now than anything else, gingerly touched Sul’s face and examined the bruises and growths surrounding his glass eyes.   Sul’s eyes were almost completely black and at the Architect’s touch, one of them immediately swelled and burst leaking a foul black liquid.

“Urthemiel!” The Architect shouted and leapt back, “You are marked by Urthemiel!”

“The shards of the eluvian bore the mark of the ‘Taint’ as we call it,”

“And you unknowingly inserted this into your body?”

“Quite the opposite,” Sul dabbed at his face with a cloth, wiping away the ichor. “I insisted that the tainted shards be used.  In order to understand the Darkspawn,” He tilted his head towards the figure the opposite him, “your people, one must first be able to see them.  Clearly.   In their light as opposed to my own,” The Architect looked stunned and Sul smiled slightly, “I am dedicated to the concept of understanding.”

“As am I,” The Architect murmured.

“Then between this dedication and the mark of Urthemiel, we share two more points of commonality.”

“Then…my presence, it is causing you pain?”

“It is,” Sul confirmed, “The presence of the Darkspawn causes a reaction with the tainted shards of the Eluvian.  But pain, I have learned, can be endured given just cause,” He gestured at his companion, “An understanding between our two people is, in my opinion, a just cause.”

“I understand,” The Architect said with great solemnity, “I will attempt to be brief, to cause you as little pain as possible.”

“Be as thorough as you feel you need to be,” Sul countered, “Trust and faith are more important at this juncture than my physical comfort.”

Gently, almost tenderly, The Architect took Sul’s head in his elongated hands and closed his eyes.   Immediately he winced, “Your mental defenses are extraordinary,” He shook his head, “I have never seen their like.”

“It is called a ‘mind labyrinth’,” Sul whispered, “The Mortalitasi, necromancers of Nevarra, use such mental constructs to bury the secrets of their forbidden rites as well as protect their spirts from possession by the dead,” The tone in Sul’s voice changed, “Permit me to open a window so that you may get a clearer view,” He focused…

….and the Architect _saw_!

He saw the Wolf and the Crone, he heard the terrible bargain made.  He saw the silver chalice; it was held by a swarthy bearded man, a warrior, and filled to the brim with the blood of Darkspawn. He could smell the scent of molten lyrium. He felt the sharp and heavy chains binding him, holding him up, preventing him from being able to flinch or cower from the onslaught. The biting of hooks into his flesh.  And the screams, rolling on and on echoing endlessly until the body was too exhausted to scream and could only twitch and spasm like a fish on the end of a line left to writhe in suffocation and death.

But most of all was the pain. Incalculable suffering until the mind teetered on madness: The pain of having his eyes cut out, not all at once, but piece by piece.   The pain of having a bizarre metal framework inserted into the gaping sockets that continuously wept blood. The pain of having razor sharp shards of glass inserted into the still raw and steaming tissue, one agonizing fragment at a time.  The pain of the whole thing being fused together by the boiling hot lyrium, molten and searing away the flesh where it touched.    And the pain as the world that was known ripped away and a new world, horrifying in its intensity, its sheer size and alien nature overwhelmed him even as the touch of the Archdemon began to claw and chew its way backwards through his skull and into his brain.  The pain of a man being broken down completely so that he could be remade.

“You…poor man,” The Architect rasped as he withdrew from Sul’s mind, “You poor poor man.”

“Your appetite is still intact, I trust?” Sul commented dryly.

“Your death is certain,” The Architect studied him intently, his monstrous face contorted with pity, “The mark of Urthemiel will consume you whole. You know this.”

“All death is certain,” Sul poured two cups of tea and offered one to the Darkspawn, “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”  The Architect took the cup in a trembling hand and drained it in a single gulp, “A colleague of mine, a Qunari, the one who…,” He gestured at the kitchen, “…taught me the recipe said that ‘the crime is not to die but to be wasted’,” Sul raised his own tea in a toast, “I will die, but I will not be wasted,” He took a sip from his cup, “Now that we have established the veracity of my claims, we shall discuss your own.”

The Architect found his voice eventually, “The truth is I do not know what I am.  I do not know why I am not bound to the will of Urthemiel.  I know only one thing: The Blights must end.   My race, my people must find a new way, a better way or else their destruction is assured.   We must work to find our place in this world and a place amongst the other free races of Thedas.”

“A noble endeavor.   How do you intend to manage it?”

“Originally it had been my thought to bring about peace by incorporating the defining elements of my people with yours.”

Sul considered that for a moment, “Introducing the Taint into population at large in an attempt to affect a mass transformation, creating a race to bridge the gap between ours and your own?”

“Yes. That experiment was not…entirely successful.”

“I should imagine not,” Sul thought for a moment, “No.   Mass casualties aside, consider the sheer numbers and variety of the races involved: humanity, elves, dwarves, Qunari. Mankind contains within its ranks more variation: From the Avvar to the Rivaini, there is no standard norm, no common basis beyond the most basic aspects of species,” He considered, a faint curving of the lips betraying his amusement, “And despite outward appearances and popular opinion, the other races are no more homogenous.   No, attempting the assimilate all the races of the world into a single mold is folly.”  Sul’s smile turned sardonic, “And we’ve already seen that mass conversion against the will of the converted is doomed to fail. Witness the efforts of the Orlesian Chantry and the Qunari.”

The Architect’s twisted features faltered and his shoulders slumped, “Then what hope is there for peace?”

“There are many forms of peace,” Sul replied quietly, “Out there on the field right now could be considered a form of peace.”

The Architect’s expression pinched in distrust, “I will not see my people condemned to genocide,” He growled, making a sound no human throat could produce.

“Neither will I,” Sul responded frigidly, unmoved by the sudden bestial display, “And so we must find a middle ground.   Between war,” He gestured outside the tent with a nod before drawing attention to his scarred features with his hand, “…and plague.”

“I’m listening,” The Darkspawn said warily.

Calmly, Sul reached across the table and picked up a small wooden box, “Have you ever seen a dwarven puzzle box before?”

“I have read about them,” The Architect answered, “Frequently the dweomer traders that came to Minrathous would peddle such items as idle distractions.”

“That is where I first encountered them although later I discovered them amongst the Rivaini and the Antivans. They made use of them to hide away their secrets and treasures.   An associated of mine collected them and she used them to soothe me during my transition into a sightless world. Their tactile nature, their inherent sense of making order out of pieces and the feeling of accomplishment I felt afterwards was therapeutic.  There were even some that played music as well,” He handed the small box to the Architect, “Ultimately I began to construct my own; this is an early attempt.”

The Darkspawn scrutinized the box: it was small in his oversized claws, three inches by three inches by three inches and made of lacquered wood and inlaid with intricate etched panels of pyrophite.   He examined it curiously before setting it aside, “I do not understand,” He stated simply.

“The future of your kind and mine is, for the purpose of this conversation, a puzzle to be studied to be solved,” Sul answered, picking the box up, “War is another such puzzle, one that I have dedicated almost the entirety of my life to.  The ceaseless study of its artful forms and failed practices,” Sul indicated the battlefield beyond, “The solution—and the results it bears—we have both borne witness to today.”

“Your point, Captain,” The creature opposite him spat, “Or do you simply wish to relish in the glory of slaughtering my people?”

“Far from it,” Sul adjusted his grip on the box, “My point is that every puzzle tends to have more than one solution,” He pushed his thumb into a panel, twisted, and the box sprang open, “All that need be altered is our perspective.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that if we cannot integrate what is best of your people into the other races at large; another perspective must be sought and along with it another solution: in this instance, perhaps incorporating what is best of the other races into your own?”

Realization dawned upon the Architect like a thunderclap, “You mean…?”

“Consider; unlike the other races of Thedas, Darkspawn are almost uniform in their creation.   They all come from the same place: the broodmothers. They all grow along similar lines based on what race they are spawned from: genlocks from dwarves, hurlocks from men, shrieks from elves and so on.  The pattern is established and has been since the First Blight,” He gestured at his companion, “You are the first aberration, the first variation to occur since the inception of your kind.”

“You have an idea.  Tell me!” The creatures face was twisted with equal parts need and desire.

“All in good time,” Sul replied, “For now, I must attend to my other duties.  For now, wander the camp and speak with its inhabitants.   Show them what you are, that you are not as the rest of your kind is.”

“I will guide him, sir.” Pellinore volunteered.

“And what am I?” The Architect said, biting back its considerable frustration and disappointment at the delay as it rose to tower over the blind man.

Sul sealed the wooden puzzle box with a wooden _clack!_

“Something more.”

Without another word, the Architect bowed its head and departed the tent. Pellinore followed closely behind. Sul spent a few moments rolling his fingers along the surface of the puzzle box, for all appearances to be lost in thought.

“Have you heard enough to satisfy your curiosity?” He addressed the shadows, standing and turning setting the box on the table.

Ceyrabeth emerged, tears streaking freely down her face.  Sul’s eyes focused, becoming human in their shape, though bright scarlet and violet in color. For a moment, the pair just looked at each other.

**_Slap!_ **

The blow caught Sul full across the face. Ceyrabeth opened her mouth and closed it several times, searching for words that wouldn’t come, before she turned and fled.

Sul watched her go: his eyes losing shape and their color shifting to a deep goldenrod before he resumed preparing dinner.

Ceyrabeth fled the camp like there were mabari at her heels. No one stopped her; no one was brave enough. Her hand still tingled from the impact with the Captain’s cheek and the sensation made her want to howl with embarrassment, and not a fair bit of rage.

 _Your death is certain_.

Your death.

Death.

 _He is going to die. He knew it. He_ knew. The thought pounded like drums in her head, spurring her forward. Maker Damn him, he knew and he hadn’t said a word. Not in any one of the miles they had ridden, the battles they had fought, the hundreds of conversations they had shared…he hadn’t thought it important to share the fact that she was following a dead man. That she had put her trust in someone that she would have to watch deteriorate into darkness and insanity as he was slowly eaten alive by the Taint.

“I don’t care. I _don’t_!” She shouted at the unlucky squirrel that had crossed her path. “He did it to himself. Serves him right…him and his abominations and darkspawn and…and…” Angrily she swiped her palms across her eyes, appalled at the sight of tears. “Stop it, Ceyrabeth.” She scolded herself. “It’s not as though he owes you an explanation. You’re just a pawn, a means to an end. One soldier amongst a thousand. It’s not as though you’re his…”

_Were I cast into the Void, I would still find you…_

She recalled his words with a throb of pain that felt like she had been stabbed. He would see the Void soon enough. And then…what would she do?

Ceyrabeth slammed her fist into the nearest tree trunk. It was a sturdy oak that had survived long before she had been born and would survive long after she was gone. It barely even shook, and that just infuriated her further. “Fool!” She slammed into it again, unsure if she were referring to the tree, Captain Sul or herself. “You utter…complete…total…FOOL!”

The tree may have been impervious to her blows but her hands were not. Finally she had to stop, cursing herself again. Ceyrabeth could move neither wrist nor fingers on her shield hand and the knuckles of her sword hand were ripped and bloody.  Neither one hurt as much as the realization that she was the biggest idiot in Thedas and that, worse still, the Captain probably knew it.

She cradled her mangled hands gingerly against her chest and slid down, resting her head on the trunk of the tree she had just abused. Its branches rustled in a sudden breeze, and the sound was oddly comforting.

_I will die…but I will NOT be wasted._

Ceyrabeth made a decision then. Sul may have accepted his death, but she would not. She would do her damndest to remind him that he was still human, still alive, right to the end. She would protect him, if only from himself.

That was if she wasn’t banished for insubordination first.

The thought of getting back up seemed monumental and so she stayed. Eventually, the soft sound of the wind and the nearby river lulled her into an exhausted doze.

“Commander,” She awoke with a start.   Her hand was on his dagger before her eyes fully opened and therefore before she was fully aware of what it was that had roused her. Atiya stood some four feet away, placidly surveying her.

“Yes, Atiya?”

“You still wish to assist me with the Captain?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then come. We must care for his eyes, and we haven’t much time. You will have to do _exactly_ what I say. No deviations.” Ceyrabeth sighed, and stood.

“I understand.”

But she didn’t, not really. She didn’t truly understand the amount of sheer torture the procedure was. She cried through the whole thing. Atiya had referenced the tears streaking down her face once. She stalwartly denied it, and that was that. But once the hours long ordeal had ended, she had gone straight to the tiny chantry altar near the infirmary tent and sobbed her heart out between prayers. Mother Giselle heard and attempted comfort. The elf woman let her believe that it was physical agony that had her so indecorously shattered. Once Mother Giselle had called a healer to tend to her hands and left again, Ceyrabeth fell into an exhausted sleep, watched over by the benevolent gaze of Andraste. This time she awoke to a whine and something pawing desperately at her face.

A Mabari with a patch of white fur over one of its eyes and a short stubby tail was whining and licking her face.

“Hi boy,” Ceyrabeth muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.   Maker, but she was tired.  It seemed like she’d been tired from the moment she’d been enlisted in this…madness.  She then noticed that it clasped a small rolled up parchment gingerly in its jaws.

“Come here boy,” She placed her hand under his jaw, the other at the back of his head, “Drop,” The dog gave her a slightly dubious look but ultimately complied, depositing the parcel in her outstretched hand.   She scratched him behind his ears and the dog licked her face with gusto. “Good boy,” She laughed.

The dog woofed in agreement before running off.

Bemused, Ceyrabeth cleared her throat and unrolled the parchment.     The lettering contained within was written in a precise copperplate script that was oddly spaced as if the hand writing it found the confines of the parchment unusual and poorly suited for its hand.

_You (and an escort) are cordially invited to dine at the Captain’s table this evening at midnight._

That was all it said.   That was all it needed to say.

Doesn’t the man ever sleep? She thought to herself belatedly before sighing and taking stock of herself. She was a wreck, stained with tears and sweat and all the things that she hadn’t had the time to fix between having her world twisted upon its axis and being party to unadulterated torture.

“Well…shit.”

 


	14. Dinner Theater

Her all-too- brief nap did not improve Ceyrabeth’s mood as she strode through the camp toward her tent but she vowed to persevere.

“Ceyrabeth!” Tallis, looking remarkably hale for just having gotten out of the infirmary, sauntered past her. “You…look like shit. What did you do, go roll around in dirt? You better get cleaned up before the Captain’s big dinner.”

“You’re invited?”

“Of course,” The elf arched her long neck, batted her eyelashes. “Special guest of the Captain. I did save his life twice, you know. Sul and I…have a special bond.” Tallis winked at Ceyrabeth before passing. “Looking forward to seeing you there!”

Ceyrabeth stopped, took a deliberate breath, but before she could exhale she found herself swept up into a set of strong arms and pirouetted away from her tent. “ _Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso…”_

“Let go, Peloquin.”

“The only time I am truly happy is when we are waltzing, loveliest of commanders,” The big Qunari flashed her a pointed violet grin. “And so…”

But Ceyrabeth was having none of it. She dropped her center of gravity and twisted, which broke her free. She walked in the direction she was suddenly facing, Peloquin following closely on her heels. She figured he was too used to Atiya’s treatment to mind hers much. But just as she reached her doorway, Peloquin spoke up in protest.

“Ah, but, Commander! I come bearing gifts!” She rolled her eyes at him but did stop. Peloquin stooped down to retrieve the package he must have dropped at her door before accosting her and opened it with a flourish.

The gift turned out to be an exquisite dress of Ferelden design with flowing sleeves, a long medallion belt and elaborate gold embroidery at the cuffs and low collar. A dress like that, made of crushed velvet with hammered gold and silver accents…she was fairly certain that she could buy a warhorse and full barding for the same amount. “You will look lovely in that gown.” Peloquin informed her sincerely.

“Where in the world would I wear it?” Beth sighed.

“Well, the Captain’s Dinner of course!”

“I’m not going.”

“Not going…?!” Peloquin’s jaw dropped so quickly it almost came unhinged. “But of course you were invited…”

“Yes.”

“Then…”

She whirled on him, “Listen carefully, Peloquin. We just fought a major battle. I am dirty, I am tired. I am in pain. And I DO NOT feel like waltzing around in a dress that costs more than I would if I were sold in a slave auction because the Captain feels the need to show off his culinary skills.”

“Commander,”

“ _Listen_.” She cut him off. “Did he invite the Architect?”

“I’m…not sure.”

“Well, I am and I’m sure he did. How do you think he feels? Dining at a table with a handful of the Commanders that slaughtered his people, next to the battlefield littered with the bodies of his comrades and unsure of whether we truly want to show him hospitality or if it’s an elaborate ruse and his death is our dinner entertainment?! Tell me how that’s fair, Peloquin!”

Her voice had been slowly rising throughout her tirade. Every single person in the vicinity was watching now…and Ceyrabeth didn’t even notice.

The Qunari swashbuckler looked at her thoughtfully for a moment then asked, very politely, “Do you intend to run back to the Templars with your tail tucked between your shapely legs?   Begging them to forgive you for your temporary insubordination and welcome you home like a stray dog returned to its master?”

Ceyrabeth bull-rushed the man.  He pirouetted out of the way with a flourish, “Whoo-hoo! Not so rough dear, you’ll wrinkle the dress!”

“How dare you-!”

“Because that’s what’s going to happen otherwise,” He interrupted, “The Captain’s table is not just a chance for him to…how did you phrase it? ‘Show off his culinary skills’? It’s an opportunity to discuss strategy, the policies and protocols of the Phoenix Legion.   In the other words, it’s where the future of our company is determined.   Why do you think it’s ‘officers only’?”

“Since when is Tallis an ‘officer’?” She spat.

“A-ha! So there it is; a bit of a jealousy no?  Good to keep the blood pumping but bad for the brain,” Peloquin wagged his finger, “Tallis is an active member of the Qun.  Chances are whatever our captain has in mind it involves them which means it involves her and by association, them,” He winked and tossed her the dress, “Come. Don’t come. Your choice. But if you’re serious about maintaining your command and remaining informed about what precisely is going on around here:  see you tonight!”   He removed his hat and bowed sweepingly before replacing it upon his head and departing, whistling that earlier piece of music.

“By the Maker, I think I might hate him,” Ceyrabeth said softly to herself.

“Commander Vallorin…”

Ceyrabeth jumped with a yelp and whirled around to see the Architect standing some six feet away. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

 _Your mere presence would do that,_ Ceyrabeth thought wryly, although in fairness The Architect was looking less corrupted than the Captain had. “I beg pardon.  I'm…on edge tonight.”

“So I observed,” Was that a smile on The Architect’s face? “I wanted to…thank you. For what you said. I'm sure that considering the needs of a Darkspawn was not something you ever expected to have to do.”

“No,” She replied truthfully. “It wasn’t. One thing I’ve learned in my time here though; nothing is ever as it seems.”

“Yes. Your Captain is…a strange man.”

Ceyrabeth laughed aloud at that. “He is.”

“I….wish to hear what he has to say. But I would wish to do it with an ally at my side. Will you accompany me to this…party?”

“Me?” Ceyrabeth’s eyebrows practically hit her hairline. “I’m a Commander of the Phoenix Legion. I led troops in battle against you.”

“And you are a being of compassion.” The Architect rebutted. “I wish to show your Captain that I am serious about my intentions to integrate with the beings of Thedas. What better way than to befriend one of his commanders?”

 “Yes.” Ceyrabeth found herself smiling back. He was oddly charming…for a darkspawn. She looked down at herself, frowned. “Give me…an hour?”

“An hour.” The Architect agreed, then to Ceyrabeth’s surprise, he gave her a slight bow before leaving. She watched him go, chuckled. If anything, the look on everyone’s face when she swept in on the arm of a Darkspawn would be worth the price of admission.

After procuring a bucket of water, soap and sponge, she returned to her tent, stripped down and scrubbed away the last of the dirt, sweat and blood to the best of her ability. The dress slipped over her form with more ease than she had expected.   Her instincts, honed by years as a tailor’s daughter, told her that the dress- originally created for the voluptuous form of Ferelden women- may have gone through alterations to fit her slight frame. The sleeves draped around her arms and pooled around her feet.   She would have to either carry the material in her hands to keep the hem from dragging in the filth or be very careful where she stepped.

She quickly discovered that there had been a pair of leather calf-high boots dyed a matching blue and lined with silver fur that had been surreptitiously delivered to just outside her tent.

“How thoughtful,” She sighed without a trace of amusement as she pulled on the boots.  She frowned, there was something-she tipped the boot over and a small wooden box clattered to the floor.   Picking it up with a hesitation reserved for handling the vilest of substances, she turned it over.   It was an extremely ornate seal that looked faintly Orlesian, she couldn’t be sure.

She could not repress a gasp when she opened it: cradled within the confines of the small box was an ear cuff.   This was no simple piece of jewelry: this was an intricately designed and elaborately crafted piece of art. Platinum, gold and stormheart all wove their way through its form and it was adorned with tiny gems except the last: a dangling ruby the size of her fingernail.   She held it up: it had clearly been made for an elven ear and as she examined it, she found engraving along the length of it.

_‘Uth Emma Uth Mar Uth Var’_

‘Ever mine, ever thine, ever ours.’

Never in her life had she seen anything so lovely. For a moment she forgot her anger and her resentment and simply marveled at the object’s beauty. It was…

“Radiant,” she whispered.

A knock at the entrance of her tent brought her back to the present.

“A moment,” She called out as she carefully affixed it to her right ear and looked at herself in the small mirror she had procured.  She looked like a queen from the stories she and her sister had told each other in the darkness of their home back in the Free Marches.  The memory caused her expression to crumple into sadness and from that came anger: who was she to parade about in such luxury? She had been a Templar, a defender of the faith.   By accepting these trinkets, what did that make her now?

“An officer who finally got paid for all her hard work,” She told herself firmly. Ceyrabeth raised her head proudly. She could sell the dress and trinkets if they ever met up with civilization again….or maybe she wouldn’t. The earring especially _was_ exquisite.

The knock came again. Ceyrabeth took a moment to compose herself and calmly pushed aside the tent flap.

It might have been the only time she’d ever seen a Darkspawn taken aback. The Architect’s expression was equal parts shock and awe as he stared openly at her regal appearance, “I beg your pardon, Commander, but if it is still your intention to have me serve as your escort…?”

“Yes, of course,” Taking the initiative, she entwined her arm around the creature’s elongated limb and after a moment of awkwardness to accommodate her much shorter gait, they proceeded through the camp.

“I do not believe that such a pairing as we was to be expected by your brethren,” The Architect rumbled as they made their way through camp leaving shocked silence in their wake.

“Yes well, knowing the Captain’s penchant for acceptance, they have certainly seen stranger things.” Ceyrabeth responded, her head still held high.  For a moment she was grateful for the crushed velvet of the dress: the night was unseasonably cool and the Architect himself seemed to leech the heat from her body.

The path to the command tent was lined with luminaries that burned an eerie green flame.  Most of the camp had retired for the evening or taken their revels elsewhere. Apparently it was an unspoken law that the Captain’s affair be undisturbed.

“Provisional Commander Ceyrabeth Vallorin of the Phoenix Legion and her escort, The Architect,” Atiya’s clear voice announced. The Qunari woman was dressed in dark violet robes of silk and leather straps entwined throughout that left one shoulder bare and the other covered only by a latticework of small chains that threaded down to a gauntlet made of the same material. A prominent collar made of chains, leather and silk completed the ensemble.   It was the one time Ceyrabeth could remember the Qunari looking even remotely feminine and yet something about it gave the impression of the opposite of comfort. It was somewhere between confining and…something equally unsettling.

The Architect scoffed and shook his head, “How fitting.”

“What do you mean?” The elf beside him asked.

“I shall educate you on the traditions of the _saarebas_ at a later date,” was all he would say.

At the end of the path, the command tent had been converted into something more festive. Banners bearing the standard of the Phoenix Legion, silver on black, fluttered in the cool breeze and beyond laid the table.   It was large and, to her surprise, circular with no obvious head or foot.  It shone with a golden hue-pyrophite, perhaps?- and was covered in etchings and designs she did not recognize.

As she approached she saw that Peloquin was already sitting in a matching stone chair.   He was dressed in an outfit befitting the finest Antivan dandy; all lace, high collars, leather pants and satiny vest and he wore an oversized wide-brimmed hat with an enormous feather pinned to it that had been cut to accommodate his equally large and bejeweled horns.  He was currently bouncing the young child he had arrived in camp with on his oversized knee, singing songs to her in a language that Ceyrabeth didn’t recognize but that held the tone of nursery rhymes.  The little girl was enthralled with the Qunari’s presence and laughed happily, taking a special delight in playing with the various pieces of jewelry that dangled from his horns.

As Ceyrabeth approached, the swashbuckler caught her eye and did a double take, though whether it was due to her appearance or her escort, she could not be certain, “Well,”  He purred, “That’s certainly one way to make an impression.”

The little girl on his lap caught sight of the Darkspawn and gasped, immediately burying her face in Peloquin’s vest, “Shhh, it’s all right poppet,” Pelqouin soothed her before turning his attention to the Architect, “The monster isn’t going to hurt you,” He grinned showing his purple pointed teeth, “And if he tries, I’ll just go _swish! Swish! Swish!_ ” He pantomimed with his finger, “And the monster will be in itty-bitty pieces!”  Peloquin’s smile never wavered but Ceyrabeth’s expression hardened.

“I am certain that won’t be necessary,” She said with iron in her voice.

“So am I, my lovely,” He replied evenly before holding up his index finger and gesturing _Swish_.

“The Commander is quite correct,” The Architect declared, “There is no call for violence.”

“Doesn’t mean there won’t be a need for it,” Peloquin retorted.

“That’s enough,” Pellinore’s voice cut in, bringing the full weight of his authority into his voice and effectively squashing the dispute, “There’s to be no violence under the banner of parlay and certainly not here at the Captain’s table.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Peloquin’s toothy smile faltered and shifted into a smirk as he gave a jaunty two-fingered salute, “Aye aye, commander.” He then returned his attention to the little girl on his lap.

Pellinore’s gaze shifted to Ceyrabeth. “Of course.” She agreed.

Pellinore shifted his focus on the Architect and inclined his head fractionally. For all his talk, it was clear that he didn’t relish the Darkspawn’s presence either, “Apologies, magus, for the indiscretion.  Sit, please.”

The Architect held the man’s eyes for a moment, and then returned the nod. “Thank you, Commander.” The Darkspawn moved to take his seat and Ceyrabeth exhaled a quick breath to relieve the tension as she moved to join him.

“Commander Vallorin,” Pellinore interrupted, “If you would please join me here,” He gestured to the chair two seats down opposite him. Between the two sat an empty chair, its back to the kitchen.  She had a pretty good idea who would be sitting there, and it made her wonder if Pellinore had made a mistake. The left and right hands of the Captain’s chair were reserved for visiting dignitaries and honored guests.  Ceyrabeth had actually attended her share of diplomatic functions; Meredith loathed them, so she always passed the Seneschal’s invitations on to her. So she also knew it was strange for her to be split from her escort. Then she understood; by divesting her of whomever she arrived with, the Captain was issuing a not-so-subtle reminder that ultimately she was an officer and it business before pleasure.  Despite the veneer tonight would definitely be dedicated to Legion business. “If I must,” She said stiffly before turning to the Architect and touching the back of his hand, “Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

“The pleasure was mine,” The creature rumbled back to her and bowing his head deeply.

As Ceyrabeth made her way to her assigned seat, her eye caught the shimmer of lyrium etched into the table top.   The etchings, when she focused, formed words.

“‘To thee of fame in former time; Come eat and drink our food and wine’,” She read aloud.

“It’s an old dwarven toast,” Pellinore explained as he pulled out her chair, “An invitation and a pledge of welcome.”

“Thank you, Commander. You needn’t trouble yourself about me.” She  
 didn’t mean to be dismissive, but she was still fuming about Peloquin. She felt as though her whole world had taken another odd tweak. She was irritated because one of her comrades- who she usually got along with quite well notwithstanding his penchant for dancing her around camp- was rude to a Darkspawn. Out of all the things that she would have predicted would happen to her that was definitely not one of them.

Pellinore took the hint with a gracious nod and returned to his seat and his companion: a young man that Ceyrabeth had seen about the camp, but could not place a name to. They made a nice couple, she thought idly….if they even were a couple. She realized how little she actually knew of Pellinore, or any of her fellow officers for that matter. It was something that made her vaguely uncomfortable- she would have to remedy that.

“Presenting Sergeant Reaper-Spine-Breaker, Eye-Gouger, Heart-Ripper-Mauler: Leader of the Crimson Vanguard, Master berserker of the Phoenix Legion and Champion of the Proving Grounds and his escort Lady Arcuse of House Saldras, Champion of the Proving Grounds and Master Slayer of the Phoenix Legion,” Atiya announced.

Ceyrabeth laughed out loud before she could stop herself. Pellinore looked at her curiously. “When we were captured…I thought he was just playing with our heads when he said that was his name,” She felt compelled to explain. He smiled at her, a genuine one and not just to be polite, and nodded with a roll of his eyes.

She turned back to watch the pair enter. Of course she recognized Arcuse; if you saw her once, you never forgot her. She was slightly built and tall for a dwarf.  She was austerely dressed in black pants, undertunic, robe, tabard, and a coat trimmed with silver. But the most shocking detail was the featureless iron mask covering her entire face. It lacked any kind of markings; nothing that indicated eyes, a nose, a mouth.   There was no sense of anything distinguishable about it.   It was devoid of identity, of humanity. It rendered her as faceless as death itself.

She then realized that it -she- was staring back at her impassively.  Embarrassed, though able to manage a nod in Arcuse’s direction, she looked away and addressed Pellinore. “What is a ‘slayer’?”   She thought she was speaking quietly but Maul cleared his throat loudly.

“I can answer that luv,”

“I’d be most obliged,” She straightened and replied.

“See, everyone at this table’s the best at what they do,” He jerked a thumb towards Peloquin, “When the Cap’n needs someone dealt with one-on-one as a point of honor, we have here our duelist,” Peloquin tipped his wide-brimmed hat obligingly. “And when the Cap’n needs someone to go all guts and glory and take on a whole bloody platoon at once, kickin’and bitin’ and screamin’,” He grinned his broken smile, “That’s me and the boys. Likely it is that if we have mages pullin’ some kind of fuckery, you could give ‘em a right nasty time.” The grin faded and the expression on Maul’s face shifted from pride to something more tentative, less open, “But when the cap’n needs death,” He said in a much quieter voice, “And I ain’t talkin’ one or two or five but a proper slaughter, when the rules of war and honor have all sod off,” He nodded his head towards Arcuse, “That’s what she’s for.”

“She’s an assassin?” Ceryrabeth asked, trying to keep the distaste out of her tone.

“No, no you’ll see her coming,” Maul assured her, “She comes at you straight on, doesn’t say a word and just-“He frowned and turned to Peloquin “Oi! Pinstick! What was that word you used to describe what she’d done after she’d done it?”

“Abattoir,” Peloquin replied guardedly as he eyed Arcuse.

“That’s it then,” Maul turned back to Ceyrabeth, “What we do is fightin’,” He tilted his head towards his masked companion, “What she does, that’s slaughter that is.   Everyone at this table be a proper warrior, but Arcuse?  She’s a right bloody butcher, make no mistake about it.”

Ceyrabeth found she had difficulty meeting the silent woman’s blank visage. The truth of Maul’s and Peloquin’s words settled upon her shoulders like a shroud, and she shivered. _It’s the wind,_ she tried to tell herself as she swept an errant curl behind her ear.

“Presenting Tallis of the _Viddathari_ , servant of the Qun and honored guest of Captain Drachaen Sul.”

Ceyrabeth rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the door. Her jaw dropped before she could help it; she snapped it shut as quickly as she could before settling her face into as impassive a mask as she could.

Tallis was wearing a dress of noble cut, but no noble ever had the audacity to wear such a garment: it was of fine green lace and came down only to her knees.   The neckline plunged well past her navel and the only thing that was preserving the girl’s modesty was an elaborately tied knot of yellow silk. Both halves of the neckline were barely contained by a tiny gold chain from which dangled a green teardrop shaped jewel.  Her red hair was piled high on her head and Ceyrabeth secretly wondered how Bayard had managed that feat without a single hair out of place or pin evident.   She wore no shoes, only anklets with little bells that extended with delicate chains to small rings upon her toes.  A variety of jangling bracelets and henna designs adorned her arms; they completed the image of something wild evolving into a thing of beauty.

Ceyrabeth suddenly felt oafish in her thick Ferelden garments, and her simple braided coronet of hair. _It’s not like you got to choose the dress, or the shoes…_ Ceyrabeth comforted herself. 

“ _Vashedan_! I think I stepped in Mabari shit!” Tallis cried out. That was when Ceyrabeth made a realization that changed everything.

Her escort…was a dog. It was the mabari that had brought Ceyrabeth her own invitation in fact. It had the same stubby little tail and little white patch over his eye.   On cue the dog woofed helpfully and Tallis shot it an evil look as she took her seat and discreetly attempted to wipe whatever she had stepped in from her bare feet. Tallis may have been stunning, but Ceyrabeth at least could claim dignity.

Ceyrabeth hid a smile behind her cup and turned to Pellinore, “This is excellent ale.  Ferelden?”

“Brewed in Orlesian wine caskets,” Pellinore answered her while sipping his own drink, “The Captain brews it himself.”

“Of course he does,” She muttered, rolling her eyes. An Orlesian/Ferelden hybrid would appeal to his sense of humor.

“She’s pretty!” The little girl on Peloquin’s lap squealed pointing at Tallis.  The elf girl smiled and pinched her cheek gently.

“Aww, thank you…?” She looked up at Peloquin inquiringly.

“Rosetta,” He supplied helpfully.

“…Rosetta! You’re very pretty too!”

The little girl giggled and buried her face in Peloquin’s chest, blushing furiously. Tallis sent Peloquin a questioning look, her expression guarded.

“She was rescued from slavers and I thought everyone deserves one fine meal in their lifetime…”

The tension left Tallis’ eyes. “Oh, well I guess that’s okay-“

“…even a mindless slave to an outdate doctrine…” He glanced quickly beneath the tabletop, “…with an extra toe on her foot like you.”

The tension returned to Tallis’ expression, “ _Kadanshok defransdim vashedan Tal-Vashoth._ ” She growled.

Calmly, Peloquin placed his oversized hands over Rosetta’s tiny ears, “ _Vá fornicar-se várias vezes com uma barra de ferro aquecida._ ”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

With his purple pointed smile still firmly in place, “It is the beautiful language of my homeland, Antiva.   Translated roughly, “’Please go fuck yourself repeatedly with an iron rod’.”

Ceyrabeth almost choked on her ale.  The threatened laugh broke out when she caught the look Tallis’s face, and though she quickly controlled it, her eyes danced with mirth.  Peloquin removed his hands from the girl’s ears and went back to amusing her with tidbits from the table.

Tallis glared and took a long pull from her goblet as the rest of the table sent her wry looks.

“Okay,” Ceyrabeth mumbled into her glass, “Maybe I don’t hate him.” She decided that Tallis had suffered enough for the moment. She leaned over and said sincerely, “You do look lovely. Those tattoos must have taken a lifetime to finish.”

“You clean up alright yourself,” A flicker of surprise showed on Tallis’s face before she got it under control. “I expected you in full armor, or maybe just the undertunic and trousers just to be stubborn. Where’d you magic up the dress?”

“I murdered a passing Bann’s wife. Luckily we happened to be the same size.” Ceyrabeth deadpanned. Tallis snorted mildly.

“Sure. Really?”

“A mysterious benefactor,” Ceyrabeth shrugged. “Peloquin delivered it…well, deliver might be too gentle a word. Threw it at me is more accurate.” The Qunari flashed a smile but said nothing. Tallis leaned closer, gently rested the ruby of Ceyrabeth’s earring on her palm.

“This is...wow.” Her voice trailed off as the stones caught the muted light. “ _Anaan_ , this cut is exquisite,” she said running her fingers over the ruby, “And this engraving here on the setting is the mark of the Royal Orlesian Jewelers,” Tallis looked up at Ceyrabeth in surprise, “Beth, this belonged to royalty!”

Ceyrabeth was eying Tallis with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, as though wondering about the safety of her ear. “I have a thing for jewels,” Tallis explained a little sheepishly.

“I see,” Ceyrabeth nodded before deciding to reciprocate, “Your dress is amazing. It really--“

“Helps give the illusion that I have cleavage?” Tallis finished and both girls laughed, “Yeah, the plight of the elven female: a serious lack of curves.”

“To the Maker’s Ears,” The other elvish woman toasted her with her glass and they drank together.  She cast a look around the table. The dog was busy sniffing around, on the prowl for scraps no doubt. Ceyrabeth scratched its ear as he passed. “So are we exchanging pleasantries for the rest of the night or…?”

“Not quite,” Pellinore mused quietly focusing on Arcuse.   The masked woman had discreetly picked her glass up off the elaborate stone table and the commander quickly followed suit, “We are awaiting our final guest, who is en route.”

Ceyrabeth frowned as everyone else at the table lifted their glasses off the surface,” Who--?”

She felt it then- a vibration in her bones- and she saw little ripple dance upon the surface of the ale in her cup.

“Uh, Tallis,” Ceyrabeth warned as she picked up the other girl’s glass, “I think…”

The sound was like an entire armory racing towards them. Before either of them could think of what to do next, a golem- ten feet of dwarven cast metal- was looming over them. Indeed, he was looming over the entire table, its shadow casting almost the entire dining room into darkness.

“You’re in my seat, mud-splasher,” The golem rumbled at Tallis. The diminutive elf looked down at her small, gilded spot of honor then craned her neck back up at the enormous golem towering over her.

“Umm…buh?”

The golem began to emit a sound, deep and repetitive from the hollows of its iron chest and Ceyrabeth understood:

It was laughing.

“I like the new meat,” It addressed the rest of the table, “Gullible.”

The rest of the table, except notably Maul and his companion, laughed.  The berserker poured himself another drink and glared at the metal construct as it settled behind a large space at the table, sans chairs

“Oh-kay,” Tallis exhaled, “Good one. Little hazing on the new girl,” She gave the golem a thumbs up and what was hopefully a convincing smile, “Got it.”

“Presenting Master Yevvon of House Saldras: Forgemaster during the reign of King Valtor and veteran of the First Blight,” Atiya announced before taking her seat.

“Same house name as Arcuse,” Ceyrabeth whispered to herself, “Interesting”.   Then her brain caught up with her and she blurted, “Veteran of the first Blight?”

Yevvon’s head creaked as it nodded, “Oh yes.” It turned to regard the Architect and the tension at the table thickened, “I can still remember the first of your kind as they poured forth from the dark, freshly corrupted for their arrogance at the hands of your Maker.”

The Architect bowed his head, “You have the advantage then, Master Yevvon: I myself cannot.”

“Trust me, Darkspawn,” It turned its head and focused on Maul and Arcuse who sat silently, “Some things are better off forgotten,”

Ceyrabeth hadn’t meant to stare; curiosity had always been her downfall and Yevvon was fascinating. Its armor was far from perfect; in fact, it was best described as piecemeal. A bright plate here and there showed where repairs had been made, while the rest ranged from merely scuffed to rusted completely through. Tiny holes- and some not so tiny- dotted the chest and back and wherever it was pocked, Beth could see the faintest hint of shimmering blue. Affixed to its body was a smattering of sea creatures- strangely jointed coral arms, mussels, barnacles…there was even a starfish twining around his eye.  They too bore a faint bluish tinge.

It was the head though, that really caught her attention. At some time, Yevvon had applied layers of gold and silver over the top and sides of it, entombing various bits of sea life and carving elaborate designs that could only be dwarven in origin. The way it was preserved reminded her almost of decorative war helm adorning its already massive head.

It rotated its head to look at Ceyrabeth and nodded, “Two fisted drinker. Impressive.” 

Ceyrabeth looked down at the two drinks in her hands and blushed, handing Tallis’ back to its owner,“It is very good. Could I pour you a…” Ceyrabeth deliberately looked at her mug then at Yevvon, raised an eyebrow. “…keg?”

The rhythmic throbbing came from the golem’s chest again, but a single chime sounded before he could reply. Pellinore stood; the others took their cue from him and also rose. “Captain Drachaen Sul, leader of the Phoenix Legion,” Atiya announced.

When compared to the loquacious introductions the others, Sul’s own introduction seemed plain by comparison, Ceyrabeth mused.

He entered from the dark recesses near the rear of the tent. He was clad in an all-white dress uniform made of Royale Sea silk, with a midnight blue half cloak and dark gray boots with blue steel buckles.  His face was free of the marks from the Taint and he was clean-shaven.   Red and white samite bindings wrapped around his eyes.   All of a sudden she was acutely aware that he was standing next to her, practically close enough for his hip to brush across her shoulder if she but leaned forward, and instead all she could see was herself holding a bowl of tiny glass shards that had cost him Maker-only-knew what kind of agony. Her eyes flickered up to his face, briefly, but her cheeks flared and she had to look down.

He wore a black and silver phoenix as a rank insignia and a handful of commendations upon his throat and chest.  Every person at the table that saw them stood a little straighter.    Ceyrabeth only recognized one: a sunburst etched in gold with blue and gold ribbon. She had seen it awarded by the hand of the Divine herself to a young Seeker that had managed to save her life.

Osen glared at those assembled from his comfortable perch on Sul’s shoulders.  Contained within his one eye was the kind of contempt that only the feline species or those capable of massacring everyone in the room could manage.

“Fellow officers,” Sul said quietly picking up his glass. The others did the same. “We honor the victorious dead, who gave all that had and all they would ever have to our victory,” He turned his head towards the Architect, “We honor our adversary who fought skillfully and died bravely…”

“By the wagon load,” Maul snickered. Arcuse elbowed him sharply in the ribs to silence him as Sul continued,

“…and finally we honor those assembled who through their own skill and good fortune claimed victory. May we greet the dawn of this new day with grateful hearts in anticipation of continued good fortune to come.”

He raised his glass in toast and drank, and the others did as well save Arcuse who dipped her fingers into the liquid and rubbed it against her mask approximately where her mouth would be.

“ _Salud_!” Peloquin declared before turning his attention to Rosetta, “Here poppet, have a drink to our good health, eh?”

The little girl took the glass in both hands and drank deeply then giggled, “The bubbles tickle my nose!”

“You give little children ale?” Tallis looked aghast.

“The Qunari give their children swords, eh?” Peloquin countered easily and gave her another drink.

“Let it go, Tallis,” Ceyrabeth advised.

Rosetta finished her drink and hiccupped once to the mass amusement of those gathered. She looked down and squealed delightfully, “Puppy!” Tallis’ escort, the mabari with the white patch of fur over his eye and the stubby tail was very interested in the little girl’s outstretched hand, licking it happily and causing her to giggle.

Without any warning, Osen arched his back and hissed before leaping off Sul’s shoulder and racing across the table. Those assembled save Arcuse leapt away as the cat perched at the edge of table facing down the dog.  His ears went back and this time when he yowled at the dog: it was a deep and resonant roar that seemed to emanate from the fiery bowels of the Void itself.   His once-empty eye socket now blazed with flame and fires could be seen emanating from his mouth.   Rosetta shrieked in fear and dove into Peloquin’s chest and even the Tal-Vashoth was on his feet at the sight of the cat’s rage.  “ _Capitan_!”

“Osen!” Sul’s face was a study in icy anger.

The Mabari held his ground for a moment against the fire-breathing cat as Osen yowled again and appeared ready to pounce and then it turned tail and fled.

“Osen!”

Slowly Osen turned his head to face his master. His ears were back and fire still burnt brightly in his face.

**“Bad. Doggy.”**

“You are frightening our guests.”

Osen’s ears pricked up and the fur on his back slowly relaxed.  He turned his head quizzically towards Sul.

“You are being rude.”

Osen looked around curiously then focused on the little girl still trembling in Peloquin’s arms. The cat sniffed at the horned swashbuckler who was cautiously getting back to his seat still eying Osen with trepidation.  The cat gently pawed at the little girl: the child’s face was tear-streaked and flushed.   He meowed and padded back and forth in front of her.

“It’s okay little one,” Peloquin reassured her while he himself sought reassurance from Sul, who nodded.

Very slowly, Rosetta reached out and scratched Osen’s head. The cat endured the attention stoically and allowed the little girl to pet his head and back. “Nice kitty?”

Osen meowed amiably then stalked away to rejoin his master, his tail and head drooped low before settling on the table at his side. “Brave girl,” Ceyrabeth complimented with a smile for Rosetta.

“That went a damn sight better than your first meeting with Osen, eh Commander?” Maul tipped her a wink from across the table. Ceyrabeth chuckled wryly, her hand automatically going up to where her burned armor had scored her throat, the scar was still visible on her pale skin.

“That it did, Sergeant.”

“Kitty was naughty?” Rosetta asked with a frown.

“No, _da’len_ ,” Ceyrabeth shook her head, “Kitty was doing his job.” She glanced briefly at Osen, whose tail was suddenly twitching very jauntily.

“What happened?” Tallis asked.

“I…may have taken arms against our Captain.  In the full company of his commanding officers.”

. “You…pulled a blade on the Captain with his entourage present?” Tallis repeated incredulously. “You are either the dumbest person in the world or the bravest.”

“Our Commander Vallorin has never lacked…. enthusiasm.” Peloquin interjected gallantly.

“A very gentlemanly way of calling me bullheaded. I accept it, for now.” Ceyrabeth teased. “But I learn quickly. Maybe someday I’ll be as prudent and level headed as Commander Pellinore.” She raised her glass in a toast to the other elf, who inclined his head with a gracious smile.

A servant came from behind the curtain at Sul’s back bearing a pair of silver trays which Sul took hold of and passed to his left and right, “Hors d'oeuvres are pickled eggs, served with red onion and horseradish sauce. A traditional Ferelden dish and fitting given our recent endeavors,” Another servant emerged with wine, “Accompanied by an Antivan Spiced Wine; a sweet finish to our time here in this untamed land.”

“I will take that, thank you,” Maul said, greedily helping himself to several eggs and biting into one with immense satisfaction, “They call this ‘tavern food’,” He mumbled around a giant mouthful, “But I tell you, this stuff right here, yeah? This is ‘soul food.’.”

“When the Fereldens fought for their independence against the Orlesians,” Sul commented, “They were forced to eat whatever they could manage.    It is from those meals that a homeland’s culinary heritage is born.   Today’s provisions eaten huddled around a campfire become tomorrow’s gourmet meal eaten at tables of kings and queens.”

“Maybe one day the meals that _we_ share will be feasts for kings and queens,” Ceyrabeth commented as she took one of the eggs, a hint of challenge in her voice as she smiled at him. The smile took some doing. The elfroot she had taken was wearing off, leaving a dull ache that was setting her teeth on edge, and with the return of pain came a return of annoyance.

He returned the smile with one of his own, equally polite and disarmingly charming, “Perhaps,” Taking the tray from her and handing it back to the servant, “Nevertheless the Fereldens did what was believed could not be done. They conquered impossible odds and it is in that spirit and their memory that we enjoy this particular dish,” He held up his wine glass, “To conquering impossible odds.”

One by one, the others lifted their glasses until the Architect remained.    Tension rose at the table: to acknowledge defeat was one thing but being forced to praise those who defeated you…

Slowly, deliberately, the Darkspawn took firm hold of his wine glass and raised it, “To defeating the odds,” He said just audible enough to be heard.  Then he swirled the wine under his nose inhaling deeply and took a sip, “My compliments to the chef.”

Sul did likewise with his glass, “ _Bon appetite_.”

Suddenly a voice called out, “Yucky!”  All heads turned to see Rosetta spitting out bits of pickled egg and Peloquin offering a sheepish smile to the Captain.

“I’m certain when I was a child I didn’t enjoy pickled eggs very much either,” The table relaxed at Sul’s comment with a roll of quiet chuckling.

“I haven’t had these since I was at sea,” Tallis commented happily, “You made these, Captain Sul?”

“I did,” He confirmed, “I prepared all the dishes of tonight’s dinner.”

“Gotta love a man that cooks,” Tallis ate another egg and ignored some of the looks of shock she was getting from those at the table. “Okay, I have to ask, what is the story with the cat?”

“I met Osen at home of the arl of Amaranthine where he and his litter mate were being tortured to death.” Sul explained while lightly scratching the cat behind the ears. Ceyrabeth shivered slightly, remembering the story about the Tevinter child that had been responsible and what Sul had done to her, “After the person responsible was brought to heel, I left his brother in the care of the groundskeeper, Samuel, and Osen and I became traveling companions.”

“Okay but that doesn’t explain the whole ‘terrifying fire-breathing’ aspect.”

“No, that occurred during our investigation of an incident at the Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux,” Sul elaborated.

“When the Captain says ‘Incident’,” Pellinore interjected, “He means a total catastrophe that involved a breach in the Fade, multiple cases of demonic possession and the near annihilation of the White Tower and the Grand Cathedral,” He nodded towards Captain Sul, “Val Royeaux could have been overrun with abomination--”

"Val Royeaux!"

Every eye turned on Ceyrabeth but she was so excited about finally solving the puzzle that she didn't even pause. "Your accent. It's Royan."

"How did you come to that conclusion Lady Ceyrabeth?" It was the Architect who posed the question.

"All Orlesians sort of sound like they're choking on their own tongue at times. The closer to the capitol you get, the cleaner the accent becomes. But every Orlesian from highborn to low has trouble with this sound...ach." Ceyrabeth exhaled the sound quickly through the back of her throat, felt it in her nose. It was a spot on impression that sounded impeccably like Mother Giselle and brought a round of light chuckles. "And our gallant captain is no exception."

“I have often found that where one is from is often of less import than one’s ultimate destination.  Every step forward is a victory in itself.”

Ceyrabeth’s smile faltered as Sul once again deflected the issue and despite herself, she felt heat racing to her cheeks once again. Would it have been so hard for him to just say ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ and let it go at that? Was it absolutely necessary for him to be such an elusive man?

“Uh-huh fascinating, so tell us about the demons running amuck and the city almost being destroyed and your fire-breathing cat!” Tallis demanded, eyes wide.

“There is little to tell,” Sul placed the rim of his glass to his hawkish nose and inhaled deeply before taking a measured sip, “There was an incident at the White Spire and demonic activity was suggested.   After the Rite of Annulment failed—“

“Excuse me, what?!” Ceyrabeth’s eyes bulged from their sockets and her mouth gaped. _The Rite of Annulment never fails!_ Her inner voice shouted between her ears. The ramifications were horrifying. In all her time as a Templar, she had never heard of such a thing. The thought alone gave her chills.

“ –I became involved and the matter was ultimately resolved,” He continued.

“You have a grand gift for understatement,” Pellinore addressed his captain dryly before taking a sip of wine.

“Oi! Princess! Shut your gob before you let a buzzard in!” Maul gestured at Ceyrabeth, whose mouth slammed shut with an audible _clack_! She whipped around to glare at him.

“No, you don’t understand…”

Tallis frowned, “What? I don’t understand, what happened?”

“I’ll…explain what I am able to later, Tallis,” She whispered, her voice hoarse as she gripped her glass in both hands and drained it, setting it down with a slight tremor.

“During my time there, Osen was briefly possessed by a powerful rage demon,” Sul scratched the cat under the chin; he purred and stretched out ecstatically, “But a beast cannot be possessed in the same fashion as a man. A beast is a creature of instinct, not rage, and when called upon to attack his master, he refused. The demon was ejected and ultimately slain.”

“ **I good kitty**.” Osen declared loudly with his one eye glaring at those assembled daring anyone to say otherwise.

“Although where he gained the ability to speak, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

The table dissolved into laughter. Even Ceyrabeth managed a chuckle, although she kept her arms tightly wrapped against her chest. She was suddenly freezing, and all the velvet in the world wouldn’t help. For a moment, rage demons flickered in her mind’s eye, only they weren’t contained in the White Spire- they were roiling down the streets of her home. She shook her head, clearing the memory, and handed her cup to the discreet servant behind her chair for a refill. She wished that Osen hadn’t chased the Mabari away; she could have used something friendly. “Poor kitty,” She whispered sympathetically.

A failed Rite of Annulment. Since Beth had joined the Legion, she had practically devoured the Captain’s library on a variety of subjects; literature, history, military tactics, even poetry. But first she had gone for any books that gave her insight into the Chantry or the Templar Order. What she found on the Templars had set her teeth on edge for days and made her consider tossing the book in the river, but the Chantry information was fascinating- Sul had tomes going back to the Founding. In neither subject, however, had she ever found mention of the Rite of Annulment ever failing. It was the last bastion of defense for the Templars, and indeed, the world, for if Abominations ever were loosed upon Thedas…

Her memories of the carnage wreaked by the demons loose in Kirkwall bubbled to the forefront of her mind, joined unbidden by an infinite variety of horrors to accompany them.

“Well,” Tallis continued unawares as she ate her eggs, “These things are a life-saver on long sea voyages.”

“I’ll be certain to have some included for you on your journey,”

“Oh yeah?” Tallis said distractedly picking at her plate, “Where am I going?”

“Home.”

Conversation died around the table as the young elf girl raised her head, swallowing a last mouthful of pickled egg that, somehow, did not taste as good as it had a moment ago, “Excuse me?” She croaked.

“You owed the Legion a debt of blood and injury for those guards you assaulted,” He unfolded his hands magnanimously, “You have repaid that debt several times over, in saving my life and the lives under my care.  The debt is paid.  You are free to return to the Qunari.”

Her expression was unreadable a mixture of surprise and perhaps longing, though whether it was longing to remain or longing to return was not known.

“Oh.”

“You have proven yourself to be a woman of honor and integrity; it is my intention that you serve as my ambassador to the Arishok.”

Tallis swallowed again, “Oh,” She took her wine glass and drained, “Umm, I am certainly grateful your lordship-captain, sir,” Ceyrabeth felt a moment of sympathy for the stammering younger girl, “but I’m not a diplomat or an ambassador.”

“You are someone I can trust to convey my correspondence to the Arishok and convey my message to him in both word and spirit.  That is all the qualification required.”

“…oh,” She looked up at a servant, “More wine please?”

“I will be sending you with an envoy of our wounded north to the port of Jader,” Sul held out his own glass to be refilled, “From there, vessels from my armada will escort you through the Waking Sea into the bay of Rialto.  Another team of my agents will meet you in Afsaana, escort you through Rivain where you will meet another vessel along the northern shore that will take you to Par Vollen,” Sul inhaled the scent of his wine deeply before taking a sip, “You will travel in safety and obscurity if not perhaps total comfort.”

“Oh-kay,” She nodded, “Sure.  Sounds like fun,” She clapped her hands together and attempted to generate some enthusiasm, “So, when do I…depart?”

“In the morning.”

“As in this morning?” She lamented, “As in a few hours from now?”

“Yes,” Sul smiled calmly, “You will have ample time to sleep on the road, I should think.”

Tallis sighed and her thin shoulders slumped.  She looked back up at the servant, “Got anything stronger than that wine?”

“We would not have you take leave of us without first accepting some tokens of our gratitude,” Sul reached underneath his cloak.

“Great,” Tallis’s expression remained unchanged, “Souvenirs.”

He placed a pair of ornate daggers on the table. Ceyrabeth looked to him for confirmation before she picked them up. She gave an admiring whistle as she passed the weapons down to Tallis.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” Tallis gasped, “What are these?”

“Since you lost your weapons saving my life and my commander’s life,” He nodded towards Ceyrabeth, “Restitution is in order.”

Tallis picked the daggers up, running her hands carefully along the edges, getting a feel for their balance, “These are…these are…”

“Not a half-gram heavy on the back-end?” Ceyrabeth finished for her.

“There. Are. Perfect,” She looked up, “These are yours?”

“And now they are yours. They are named ‘Thane’ and ‘Kathryn’.”

“They have names?”

“And a history,” Sul nodded, “Thane and Kathryn were obscure Orlesian nobility. Left in their wake however were a series of high-profile assassinations and suspicions were harbored regarding the pair.  Finally, their enemies caught up with them and Thane was slain.  He died in Kathryn’s arms.”

“How sad!” The young elf exclaimed. The rest of the table appeared to be equally engrossed in the story.

“Except that Thane wasn’t the assassin: Kathryn was. She hunted her husband’s murderers and slew them before taking her own life,” His expression turned thoughtful, “Her last words were to her ward, the Comte Brevin de Chalons: ‘His love was life to me’,” He settled against his chair, “And now they are yours,” The table was silent as Sul raised his glass, “To Thane and Kathryn: bound in love, united in death and life.  Their legacy is now yours, use it well and to you Tallis of the _Viddathari_ , servant of the Qun, and to whatever legacy awaits you. _Salud._ ”

Tallis, speechless, held the daggers with reverence as the rest of the table drank their wine.

“Good story,” Ceyrabeth said dryly, “So how did you wind up with them?”

“I was the guest of the Comte at the time,” Sul replied, “I gave him some advice about a young half-elf that took a favorable turn for each of them; the daggers were his expression of gratitude.”

“Must have been some half-elf,” She snorted.

“Michel has grown into an exceptional young man and a fine chevalier,” He turned his attention back to Tallis, “Returning to my earlier point, I have two other items that I would have you bear to the Arishok.”

Tallis stopped fondling her new daggers and slid them behind her back, “Sir, yes sir!” She replied grinning from ear to pointed ear.

Atiya took a sealed metal urn from the servant behind her and placed it on the table before Tallis, “What is this?” The elf frowned, it was heavy and oddly warm to the touch.

“A gift to the Arishok: tribute, so that he may think of the Phoenix Legion with fondness. It is a substance called ‘vitaar’.”

“I’ve heard of this stuff,” She inspected the urn, “Some sort of war paint that doubles as liquid armor. Toxic to non-Qunari.”

“Hence the sealant,” Sul elaborated, “This particular sample has been treated with certain herbs and dyes to protect him and his warriors from arcane assault; useful when combating the Tevinter and their servants.”

“No kidding,” She heaved the urn from the table and placed it by her seat, “He’ll be asking for this stuff by the boatload.”

“If you are correct,” Sul smiled faintly, “The Legion shall do its utmost to accommodate him.”

“Okay so, the amazing daggers: check, the enchanted anti-magic toxic war paint: check,” Tallis looked up, “Anything else?”

“Only this: information,” Sul leaned forward, “Are you familiar with the sacred Qunari texts?”

“Ahhh,” She swallowed, “Not…really?   I’ve never really had the time.”

“You should make the time,” The Captain chided, “Take for instance the writings of Ashkaari Koslun.”

“The Tome of Koslun?” The elf girl smiled, reassured, “Well everyone knows that one: it’s the entire basis of the Qun.”

“Indeed, it is.  It is to be returned to the Arishok; currently it is the custody of the Orlesians.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“It is also going to be stolen before it ever arrives to the Arishok,” He informed her casually.

 “I… didn’t know that either,” Her wide eyes went a little wider.

Sul gestured and Atiya placed a sealed scroll before Tallis, “Take that to your Arishok: proof from my agents that an open bounty has been placed on the Tome. The theft will occur or has occurred already and a projection as to where the raiders will most likely ultimately make berth,” Sul’s tone remained cordial, “We only ask that in return, should the information prove useful to the Arishok that he will think fondly of the Legion.”

Hesitantly, Tallis took the damning document and held onto it very tightly, “Can I at least get a hint about where all this is going to happen?”

Sul smiled sardonically, “Find your own hints, Tallis of the _Viddathari_.  For now, enjoy your meal.”

Tallis looked down at herself and then, biting her lower lip, mustered her courage and looked back up again to address the blind man.

“Can I at least keep the dress?”

There was another chorus of laughs around the table. Sul simply nodded sagely

“Your dress…was a gift?” Ceyrabeth interjected.

“Well, yeah! It's not like I travel with a wardrobe, right?”

Ceyrabeth could barely hear Tallis’s answer past the sudden roaring of blood through her ears.  What had she been thinking?  Of course Tallis had garnered attention; she was beautiful and bright and strong.  It meant nothing to her, nothing whatsoever. The Captain- for who else had the resources to magic up not one, but two exquisite outfits in less time than it took to blink- was being courteous to both women.  And yet…the differences. Tallis with her barely concealed charms, her graceful motions…She would have chosen Tallis to display too, if she had been choosing.

 _Am I…jealous? I'm jealous. Maker take me…._ she fought the urge to thump her head down on the table as she finally admitted her foolishness. She had been pleased by her gifts, happy to have her needs considered, even as she railed at Peloquin against the whole notion.  She had felt…special.

But the truth had come as it always did. She was a soldier; one of thousands.  She had simply been given the courtesy any one of them would receive had they found themselves in the same situation. _Should have worn armor…_ she seethed. _At least it would have been mine!_

“Beth? Ceyrabeth? Hello….?”

The anger that she felt at allowing herself to be dressed up and paraded around like a doll had brought brilliant color to her cheeks.  She straightened her spine, took a casual sip of her wine, and pulled in a breath.  “Well,” She stated, her voice determinedly cheerful. “It fits you like a glove, and you never know when you'll need a party gown.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Tallis was still looking at her strangely but gave her reply with a jaunty grin Sul-ward.

“You do realize that the Captain cannot actually see your winning smile,” She said sweetly to the younger girl and received perhaps more than a little satisfaction to watch her grin falter. “Which is a shame. I’m sure you’ve broken many a man’s heart with it.”

“Ladies…” Peloquin interjected. “We’re under a banner of parley, remember?” He grinned, “So play nicely.”

“Or don’t,” Maul snickered.

Ceyrabeth glared daggers at the stocky elf. But then, she saw Tallis...the younger girl was practically quivering with suppressed mirth. She rolled her eyes at the elder elven woman, and the meaning could not be clearer.

Ceyrabeth bit her lip but there was no help for it; Tallis started laughing, and she had to join in, "Men!" She exhaled, wiping tears of mirth from the corner of her eyes. "Always ready for a catfight!"

"Right?" Tallis slammed an elbow into Maul's side. "Just a bit of banter, that. Don't get excited." She batted her eyelashes at him.

A small bell sounded and servants cleared away the dishes.   Sul stood and cleared away his own place as well as Pellinore’s and, to her very great surprise, Ceyrabeth’s.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” He announced, “May I present the main course of tonight’s meal?”

 


	15. The Main Course

Sul turned and reached behind him before presenting an ornate silver covered platter.  Steam rose from it and the aroma set mouths watering around the table.   He removed the cover with a practiced flourish.

It was…clay?

“Clay roasted Bronto thigh and canoe cut marrow bone,” He took a small metal mallet and tapped at the clay, shattering it and causing even more delicious smelling vapors to emerge. “This is originally a dwarven dish. Clay is a rare and precious commodity amongst the dwarven people. It is harvested almost exclusively from the shores of the river _Aedros Atuna_ , the only river found in the DeepRroads and made all the more inaccessible by the Darkspawn.  And so this dish is usually reserved for royalty.” 

He knocked off the rest of the clay, which revealed a large leaf now wilted from heat. He peeled open the leaf, revealing the mouth-watering meat within. “I learned that in order to prepare it in more hostile climates, additional steps must be included to ensure the succulence of the meat, hence the inclusion of the banana leaf; an equally rare commodity from Par Vollen,” He laid the meat bare before the table, “Stuffed with dried fruit and garnished with Orlesian black truffles,” A servant handed him a bottle, “Accompanied with a bottle of mosswine from Kal Shirok.”

“Mosswine is toxic,” Yevvon rumbled.

“The artisans of Kal Shirok also included master vintners,” Sul explained as he poured the wine into Ceyrabeth’s glass first.  It was violet and possessed an extremely potent aroma that made her light headed just smelling it, “They discovered a blend of herbs and other fungi that neutralized the mosswine’s toxicity whilst at the same time unlocking its hidden bouquet.”

Maul took his glass and inhaled deeply as he had seen the Captain do numerous times then coughed, “Bloody hell!” He swore, “This’ll knock you on your—“Arcuse elbowed him sharply in the ribs again and he fell silent.

“Indeed,” Sul commented, taking up a large knife and carving up the meat; constructing plates of meat, fruit and truffles and placing them before Pellinore and Ceyrabeth before having the platter passed around the remainder of the table.   He cut a piece for Osen who tore it apart and devoured it with great gusto, licking his chops contently much to the amusement of those dining.

“I hope you all enjoy this dish as much as Osen seems to,” Sul said with a smile and raising his glass in toast, “To the people of the stone whose sacrifice made this dish possible.   May we all honor their courage by doing our utmost to find life’s imperfect moments and enjoy them perfectly.”

“Cheers!” The table toasted and sipped their wine.

“Sweet Maker!”   Ceyrabeth exclaimed.  The wine’s flavor exploded across her tongue like dragon fire; sweet, spicy, salty and more all at once.

“Not bad eh?” Peloquin said with a grin, “Put some chest on your chest.”

Tallis was sputtering as well, “None of that for the child!” She insisted when she regained the ability to speak.

Rosetta looked very cozy in the Tal Vashoth’s lap and also quite drowsy.  Peloquin tousled her hair with a manicured hand, “I think we will not have to worry,” He assured the woman.

“Oh…” Ceyrabeth had just taken her first taste of bronto and could not help the involuntary groan of pleasure. The meat melted on her tongue with surprising bursts of sweetness from the fruit, earthy yet floral tones from the leaf and the truffles filling her nose. Her eyes fluttered closed as she chewed.  “This is…”

“You approve, eh, Commander?” Peloquin teased.

“I have eaten plenty of pickled eggs in my life,” The elf countered. “As far as I’m concerned, if I never had to taste another one I would be entirely satisfied. But this…this is _perfect_. Exquisite. I would go to war for this dish alone.” She was gushing, completely forgetting the fact that she was in fact showering compliments on the man sitting to her right.

Peloquin grinned, his pointed purple teeth flashing as he swallowed a mouthful of food, “Glad you approve,” He turned his attention to Sul, “But you are not being entirely honest _mon capitan_.  The dish is Dwarven, true, but I taught you the recipe remember? When we were dining outside Denerim with those horrid men?”

“I remember,” Sul said noncommittally.

“Although you’ve made some changes,” Peloquin leaned over to Tallis who was currently savoring a mouthful of the meat, “My dish used longpig instead of bronto…”

Tallis dropped her fork, choke and spat the food back onto the plate, aghast.

“…but the Captain’s palate is not as refined as my own,” he continued smoothly, “So I can assure that this isn’t longpig,” He helped himself to a heaping forkful from Tallis’ plate and chewed with much satisfaction.

“ _Ashkost say hissra, Tal Vashoth!_ ” Tallis hissed taking a large swallow of wine.

“Be careful with that,” Yevvon rumbled, his finger creaking as he pointed at her, “I believe this substance is potent enough to make Acquae Lucidus seem like lichen ale.”

“I don’t know what any of that is,” Tallis replied haughtily, “But I assure you that I can handle my wine.”

“Suit yourself.”

Ceyrabeth carefully put down her fork and looked at Sul. “What is ‘longpig’?” She asked.

“Human being.”

Her eyes went wide, “You ate a human being?”

“I did not.   Peloquin did.   I learned how to prepare this dish and that is all.”

Ceyrabeth turned to look at the Qunari. “You’re a cannibal?”

“A cannibal would suggest that he eats his own kind,” Sul sipped his drink. “To my knowledge, he has never consumed his own”

“Wish he would,” Tallis mumbled, “Fewer Tal-Vashoth the better.”

“I’m not sure how comforting that is, considering that _we_ are not Qunari.” Ceyrabeth touched the back of her fork, considering, then picked it up and continued eating.

“What’s this, commander?” Peloquin tipped his horned head at her with surprise that was not entirely feigned. “No moral speeches? No rousing battle cries to the side of the Maker against my depravities?”

Ceyrabeth shrugged. “Commander Peloquin…I cut off my own ears to join the Templars. There is, in fact, both a Darkspawn and a golem sitting at our table, along with a fire-breathing cat, and the Captain who gathered us has magical glass shards for eyes. I’m sure there’s a very tragic reason why Arcuse is wearing a full face mask— “

Two fingers pressed firmly on her wrist and she could feel the disapproval emanating from Sul; she had apparently crossed a line.   _Shit._ “Arcuse, I beg your pardon. I meant no disrespect.” Regaining her composure, she turned her attention back to Peloquin.

“My point is that yours is not the only strange nature here. Just…” She leveled her eyes on him. “Don’t ever kiss me again.”

Sul’s bandaged gaze became inquiring as he raised an eyebrow slightly.

“It…was a small kiss.”

Sul looked at her just a moment longer and Ceyrabeth hurriedly turned her attention back to her plate. The incident had been nothing, simply Peloquin being Peloquin. He was extravagant, had no filter, and loved to tease. He had received a knee warningly aimed at his groin for it, and had laughingly gone his own way. So, why did she suddenly feel like she needed to apologize to the Captain?

Shrugging, Sul turned his attention back to those assembled at the table, “This dinner is not only a celebration of our victory, but a commemoration of those who made it possible.  This army does not function without the skill and dedication of its officers” He got to his feet and the rest of the table followed, looking amongst themselves with some confusion.  “Lieutenant Pellinore, Lieutenant Vallorin,” He turned to address them each in turn, “The Phoenix Legion needs disciplined minds and the ability to inspire others. Your field promotions stand: you are hereby both officially promoted to the rank of Commander.”

“I-thank you sir,” Pellinore stammered before straightening. “ _Ir Mirthadra_.”

“Congratulations Commander Pellinore,” Sul nodded.

“Are you…” Ceyrabeth was about to ask Captain Sul if he were sure he meant to include her, but of course he was. He said nothing he did not mean. For a moment she felt awful. Pellinore had waited quite a while for his command; they had spent a bit of time in each other’s company before the battle and Ceyrabeth had been curious about him. She was taking his spotlight.

But then, she caught the older man’s eye and Pellinore nodded with a smile, and raised his glass in her direction. Pride flooded through her; she was only twenty-six, and the commander of a well-trained military force. She had gained the respect of an excellent- albeit unconventional- Captain and most of his crew besides. Far though she was from her original calling, she had not only survived, but thrived. She toasted Pellinore in return and a smile flashed across her face.  “Thank you Captain. I will work to assure your trust is not misplaced.”

“Now who's grinning at a blind man…?” Tallis muttered.

The rest of the main course proceeded in good spirts with Rosetta declaring it “Yummy!” much to the amusement of everyone else.   The dishes were cleared away and glasses filled with brandy were placed before each diner.

Sul’s attention shifted to the far end of the table, “Architect, did you enjoy your meal?”

The Architect’s warped features became guarded, “I do not remember exactly how food tasted once: the tartness of an apple, the bite of wine, the heat in food, the cold in drink.  All of it is like a dream dreamed ten thousand lifetimes ago, if there was a time before…this,” He gestured at his mangled features before turning his attention back to the food on his plate, “But what you have created here, Captain Sul, is more than food. It is art and even if I cannot appreciate the taste of food any longer,” His features shifted in an approximation of a smile, “I can still appreciate art,” He settled back against his chair, “Thank you for this beauty. This work of art.”

Sul accepted the compliment with a nod, “Then unless you have no objections, we shall move on to the next topic of discussion: the terms of your surrender.” The tension in the room returned in force. “Peloquin?” Sul asked.

Peloquin snapped his fingers twice by Rosetta’s ear.  The little girl mumbled something incoherent and buried her face deeper into the Qunari’s chest.

“Out cold,” He confirmed. 

“Ah so that’s why you was giving her ale,” Tallis slurred.   No one paid her any attention.

“So we finally get down to it,” The Architect replied icily, “Is this the part where you threaten to kill me if I do not acquiesce to your demands?”

“You are a guest at my table, Architect,” Sul replied with a touch of anger coloring his voice, “I do not make it a habit of murdering my guests.”

The two stared at each other across the table for a long moment then the Architect nodded his head, “I apologize, captain, for my rudeness,” The moment held a few heartbeats longer and then Sul nodded, “What are your terms?”

“Information,” The blind man answered.

“Just…information?”  The Architect’s tone was disbelieving, “No demands of gold or servitude?”

“My army is adequately funded and I do not make use of slaves,” Sul steepled his fingers, “No, just information.”

The Architect’s tone became suspicious again, “What _manner_ of information?”

“Two points. One, Darkspawn even more so than the dwarves have an unparalleled knowledge of the Deep Roads going back to their first blight,” He tilted his head towards Yevvon, “Yevvon has assisted me with mapping a portion of them, but a Darkspawn of your age especially with your connection to the collective consciousness of Urthemiel would have a matchless knowledge of the geography and history of them.   Knowledge that would be invaluable in my efforts.”

Maul gave a low whistle and Ceyrabeth nodded agreement. “Invaluable” was an understatement. This information would give them unprecedented access to the Deep Roads, even greater than the dwarves.

The Architect’s posture was rigid, his long claws digging furrows into the stone tabletop, “And the second?”

“Urthemiel has plans for Thedas that extend past Ferelden: Orlais, Nevarra, The Free Marches.  I want to know what they are. All of them.”

“So,” The Darkspawn hissed acidly, “Your terms for surrender are that I betray my people, compromise the only safe haven they will ever know, our very home, and lay bare the entirety of our plans to you and your band of mercenaries!”

“That is correct, Architect.”

“And what in the name of Urzara would possess me to do this?”

Sul’s tone became a thing of steel and ice, “Because you don’t have a choice.”

“Do I not?” The Architect barked a bitter laugh, “Oh, do tell.”

“Right now, a not insignificant number of your kinsman are trapped underground between here and Orzammar.  They will either starve to death or turn on each other, driven mad by Urthemiel’s call and their inability to answer.”

“Your arrogance does you a discredit, captain. You assume that there are no other tunnels leading out.”

“Because there are not,” Yevvon rumbled, its tone huge and hollow, “I have roamed these southern tunnels, seen with my own eyes.  The tunnels you speak of have long since been collapsed either by the shifting of the earth or the will of man.”

“How would any man know—?“

Sul smiled thinly and The Architect seethed as he understood, “You and your pet golem?”

“Yevvon has proving his worth many times over,” Sul said simply, “As a master smith and experienced explorer. Age, in this case, is a virtue.”

“And I am no one’s pet, Darkspawn,” Yevvon added.

“As I said, Architect, they are trapped and without outside aid they will _not_ survive,” Sul informed him calmly.

“They are a small fraction of the whole,” The Architect retorted, “There are still my brethren that have already reached the surface as well as those who shall emerge from tunnels beyond your reach.”

“That is true,” Sul conceded, “And they will find is an entire nation that has been alerted to their presence. Whatever power struggle may be playing itself out amongst the nobility represents an equally small fraction of the whole: the rest of Ferelden are men and women who have in recent history successfully ejected a foreign occupation ten times its own size. This is not when Zazikel awoke and ambushed the Anderfels before the Grey Wardens knew what hit them,”

The captain’s tone was relentless as he spoke ancient names and of long forgotten things, “Nor is this the rise of Toth when Tevinter and Orlais were too consumed with their own squabbling to launch a unified offense against your people,” He moved in for the kill, “This is Ferelden: a warrior nation more stalwart than any Orlesian and filled with more pride in their homeland than any Tevinter magister.  Whether or not Ferelden’s leaders are united, its _people_ are united…against you, your kind and your goals,” Sul sipped from his cup, “And this fifth blight, I can promise you, will be the shortest one in history.  Whether or not your people live to see it through depends on you.”

“You are a student of history,” The Architect said softly.

“I am,” Sul acknowledged, “And what history tells me is that we are at a crossroads right now.  The Blight will end one way…or another.”

“You’ve already seen it,” Ceyrabeth interjected softly. In sharp contrast to Sul’s, her voice was warm, understanding, almost pleading. Her attention was all on The Architect. “On the field at Rainesfere. In your shattered plans for conquest, the loss of so many of your kind. From all accounts written of your people, it seems that you share a deep connection, a psychic bond. If that is true, then you hear them don’t you? Your brothers down below, trapped and restless and starving. You’re given a way out, Architect. Don’t throw it away because of pride. I know well that pride is cold comfort when you’re standing knee deep in blood and you know you had the power to stop it.”

There was a strange intensity in her words, a lilt that none of them had ever heard from her before. Then Osen shifted, his hackles starting to rise and his tail happened to brush Beth’s arm. She looked down, and the strange intensity dissipated.

The Architect looked down at the table for a long time and he ran his fingers across the intricate carvings adorning it before slowly raising his head, “I cannot do what you ask.”

It was very quiet around the table and then Sul removed a gold coin from his pocket.  Atiya rose and spoke quietly to a guard who nodded and hurried off. “The choice that is before you will determine the future of your kind.  It carries with it the gravity of an entire race, all held in the power of choice.  Your choice: to either free your kind or doom them.”

The guard returned bearing eight bound darkspawn.  Osen hissed and growled low in his throat.

“But sometimes there is no choice,” Sul continued, “Some things bear the indelible mark of inevitability.”

“ _Vashedan_!”  Tallsi swore and nearly fell out of her chair at the sight of the savage creatures.

“Steady on,” Peloquin assured her placing a reassuring hand on her thin shoulder.

The others regarded the sight of the bound monsters with a mixture of shock and dread, “What is the meaning of this?” The Architect demanded angrily.

“You tell me,” Sul shot back with an edge to his tone.    The Architect looked at his brethren: They were large and bore a bestial cunning in their dark eyes.   They regarded their surroundings with a combination of disdain and murderous intent.

“Drach— _Captain,”_ Ceyrabeth caught herself, “What is going on?”

“It’s quite simple: The Architect summoned for help during the course of dinner, telepathically.   These eight infiltrated the camp with the intent on liberating him, slaying whomever they should encounter in the process,” Sul turned his attention back to the Architect, “You did what anyone who considered themselves a prisoner would do. So, I fashioned a way into the camp and awaited your rescuers.”

“A trap then?” The Architect bit out.

“As I said, some things are inevitable,” Sul turned the coin over and over in his hand, “But you were never a prisoner, Architect, you are a guest.  You are free to leave anytime you wish.”

The Darkspawn frowned disbelievingly at the blind man. Cautiously, he began to rise from his chair.

Sul gestured at the other darkspawn, “They are not, however.  They have entered my domain with the intent to do harm to my people and for that there is only one recourse.”

“You intend to execute them then.  Murder them like animals?”

“Not as you understand it,” Sul shifted his attention slightly, “Arcuse.”

Silently, the masked Dwarven woman rose from her chair and padded her way towards them. She was taller and slighter than most dwarves but still stood at least a foot shorter than the smallest of the eight darkspawn.

“Guardsman,” Sul instructed, “Release them and return to them their arms.”

“Do what now?” Tallis exclaimed.

“What is this?” The Architect demanded.

“A demonstration in choice,” The Captain replied, “And inevitability.”

The guard obeyed without question.  The creatures eyed him hatefully and then their malice turned gleeful when they were given back their arms.   For a moment, it looked like they would strike the man down.

Instead, Arcuse interposed herself between them and entered their ranks.  There was confusion on the creatures’ twisted features as she stood silently before them.    The tallest of them, a Hurlock and in all probability the leader emitted a long hiss and the creatures began to fan out surrounding her, measuring her like meat.

With a deliberate slowness, as if she were savoring the moment, she removed a long piece of flat metal from her tunic.  She rotated it ninety degrees and a long thin blade extended with a whisper soft rasp of metal on metal.  She flicked her thumb against the base of the blade and it locked with a _click._  Rotating it twice more caused a second blade to slide out and lock into place.  She now possessed some kind of double-sided glaive, a weapon that Ceyrabeth had never seen before.    She held the weapon high above her head horizontally, her free hand low to the ground, her feet evenly spaced and her spine twisted as if she were trying to look over her shoulder at the creatures there.

 The Darkspawn surrounding her hissed and snarled daring her to strike first so they could converge upon her and consume her.   Their hands twitched to tear her apart and devour her as a crowd gathered, eerily silent.

Sul placed the gold coin edge first  on an engraving, a groove, that ran the half the circumference of the large round table and then taking his fingernail he flicked it causing it to roll along slowly with an audible _ping!_

And Arcuse pounced upon the Darkspawn.  

She sprang backwards and uncoiled with tremendous speed and force bringing the edge of the glaive down diagonally across the creature behind her. It carved through him at a forty-five degree angle slicing him apart from his left shoulder to his right hip.   He had not yet fallen before she swung the other end of the spear up and over with the same momentum, wrapping her body around it and burying the other end in the skull of a second creature.  She then thrust backwards with the weapon catching a third in the throat. It gurgled and fell to the ground.

The remaining Darkspawn recovered from their initial surprise and charged her.  One attacked her back with a sword. She blocked it with the grip of her weapon, still resting behind her shoulders, and kicked backwards.  Her boot collided with the creatures’ midsection causing it to fold in half.   She parried a brutal downward chop from an axe from the next creature, causing it to bury its weapon instead in its incapacitated brethren.   The first beast howled in pain and rage before Arcuse swung the glaive up and back down again, severing the creature’s head with the first swing and the arm of its axe wielding companion with the second.  The maimed darkspawn had time to sink to its knees clutching the bloody stump before she spun her weapon and thrust the spear through its eye and out the back of its head in a gout of black blood.    

A sword thrust from off to her right nearly skewered her head.   Instead of recoiling from the attack she thrust her metal faceplate _into_ the oncoming weapon.  It struck and sparks skittered off it.  Her attacker overextended and could not recover in time as she released her hold on the spear and drove her fist into the beasts’ throat. There was the wet _crunch!_ of shattered bone and blood welled up from its mouth.  It fell to the ground gasping, eyes wide before she gripped its head in her hand and twisted violently.  There was a stomach-churning _snap!_ and she pushed the creature away from her where it sank to the dirt and remained still. 

The two remaining Darkspawn including the leader eyed her with a great deal more caution now.  They gripped their weapons and snarled as she twirled her weapon around her body, effectively switching her grip on the weapon before advancing on them. The smaller one went low whilst the larger one moved to outflank her. Executing a split, Arcuse blocked the low attack rotating her weapon and jabbing it up into the creature’s armpit and out through its shoulder.  It screeched in anger and pain. She twisted her spear causing its arm to spasm and it drop the weapon in had been holding.  Gripping its wound, it scuttled away as its leader brought its own weapon; an enormous two handed hammer crashing down on the dwarves’ head.   She spun her own weapon and tucking her legs underneath, rolled forward into the attack, dodging the weighted end of the weapon and parrying the haft with the grip of her spear and kicked with a boot that connected with the hulking brutes’ knee.   The joint went with a wet _snap!_  The Hurlock howled and pitched forward as its crippled leg folder underneath it.  Arcuse rose to meet him, regaining her footing and swinging her blade around and up, neatly severing its head from his shoulders.   The creature and his head fell to the dirt and lay still.

The coin finished its trip upon the table and fell over with a clatter before the Architect: it was a gold doubloon from the Tevinter Imperium of old now fallen into ruin.  A dire portent.

“There is the inevitable,” Sul reiterated quietly, “And there is choice:  the choice of whose hand shall shape the future of kind:   Yours…,” He nodded towards Arcuse: spattered with the blood of eight slaughtered Darkspawn and not even breathing hard, “…or hers.”

Tallis stared at the carnage with an expression of complete awe on her face, “Okay,” She announced, still slurring, “She’s good.”  And then she pitched forward in her chair face first into the table and began to snore softly.  No one seemed to notice as they continued to survey the carnage in stunned disbelief.

One Darkspawn, the one stabbed through the shoulder was currently bleeding out but still alive.    The dwarven woman approached it…

“No!” The Architect cried out with his hand outstretched as if to stop her.

…she planted the end of her spear into the creatures’ brain.   It jerked once and lay still.

Trembling violently, The Architect tore his gaze from her to her master sitting at the other end of the table.

“It is not her presence that should cause you concern, Architect,” Sul said simply, “But rather; how many _more_ like her I have at my command,” He leaned forward, “My war is not with your kind: that war will be fought and won by the Grey Wardens, as it has in the past,” He gestured to Arcuse who remained at attention, “Whether or not that remains the case after these negotiations are concluded is up to you.”

Looking back and forth between the masked dwarf, her blind captain and taking stock of the other people at the table: the golem, the berserker elf, the two elven commanders who were watching him warily, the cat that even now seemed ready to pounce and incinerate him at a word and then past them to the men and women who had gathered to watch the abbreviated duel and had expressed neither shock nor surprise at how quickly and completely the dwarf had slaughtered his people and were now awaiting the word of their commander, The Architect closed his eyes.

“I yield to your demands.”

 Ceyrabeth bowed her head, exhaling in a huff that was equal parts relief and regret. She felt sorry for the Architect, darkspawn though he was. It hadn’t been that long ago that she had been standing before Captain Sul, horrified by him and the people at his command, watching in terror as Parette was consumed by Chirak, desperately trying to shield her men and wondering whether she was next. That thought brought an odd sense of melancholy. She closed her eyes briefly, sending up a wordless prayer for fortitude, then sat back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap as the bodies of the Darkspawn were hauled away.

“All in good time,” Sul assured the Architect with none of the gloating that Ceyrabeth would have expected any other commander to indulge in at this point.  A small courtesy that she knew was as precisely calculated as every other aspect of the negotiations.  Allowing the Architect to retain a shred of dignity could prevent whatever antipathy he was currently experiencing from blossoming into full out hatred. “The specifics will be discussed privately,” Sul continued dragging her attention back to the present, “However as a sign of good faith—“

“You mean to ascertain the veracity of the information I give you,” The Darkspawn interjected with a cynical expression.

Sul conceded the point with a slight nod, “We both want the same thing, Architect: the end of the Blight, in keeping with that,” He gestured to his side, “Commander Ceyrabeth and a hand-picked team of Legionaries will accompany you down into the Deep Roads to assist with your efforts to convert your brethren as well as to gather information,”  The elven woman’s mouth dropped open as Sul reached behind him to take a platter from a servant laden with several pastries, “In the meantime, we shall conclude our meal with—“

“ _What?!_ ”

Ceyrabeth leaped to her feet, her face gone white and her eyes practically swallowing the rest of her face.   The rest of the table looked at her in surprise.

“I’m up!” Tallis cried out jerking her head up from the table, “What’s going on?”

Sul turned his head to look up at Ceyrabeth with an expression of polite interest.   His eyes began to glow red so brightly that they shone dully through the bindings.

Ceyrabeth was trembling violently, her mouth was opening and closing with no noise coming out.  Then she turned and stalked from the table nearly running down a servant in the process.

“Commander?”  Sul’s soft tone drew her up short.   With every ounce of self-control she possessed, she turned around to face him, “Does this mean you will not be staying for dessert?”

Peloquin burst out laughing and Maul joined him, guffawing loudly. Pellinore discreetly hid a look of amusement behind his hand as Tallis looked up at the other elven woman scrutinizing her intensely.  

“You look…upset,” She confirmed with the gravity of the deeply intoxicated, “Now, take a deeeeeep breath and explain what’s the matter,”   She threw her arms out wide, “Do you needs a hug?”  She then hiccupped.

Ceyrabeth looked at her without a shred of comprehension before storming away as fast as her elegant boots could carry her, “I get her dessert!” She heard the drunken girl declare loudly to another round of laughter as she plunged into the chaos of the camp and as far away from the dinner table as possible.

“Beth!” She was hailed by a young man drinking with his companions near a campfire; Keiran. He caught sight of her expression at the same time Mathias and Tregan did.

“Uh oh…” Tregan said as Mat whistled. “I know that look.”

“What happened? Dinner not go well?” A scout- Ceyrabeth recognized her as Mischa-asked, oblivious to the three ex-Templars shaking their heads at her.

“Dinner was lovely.” Ceyrabeth’s tone was acerbic, “Pickled eggs, clay roasted bronto thigh, poisonous wine and _oh!_ A massacre! Isn’t that wonderful? I just _love_ watching wanton carnage over aperitifs, don’t you?”

“Ooookay, come here.” Keiran handed his cup to Tregan and slipped his arm through Ceyrabeth’s. He steered her firmly away from the main camp. “Tell me what happened.”

She poured the story out in a hemorrhage of fury, words stilted as she attempted control and failed. Keiran had seen her like this before, so he knew to sit quietly until her tears came. Only then would she be malleable enough to attempt comfort. But the tears never came. She finished her story, but couldn’t stop pacing. Keiran watched her, confused. He could understand residual anger- She was _not_ a ‘cold’ warrior, and the sight of any battle would definitely pump her blood to boiling.

But he knew she wasn’t mourning the darkspawn. She _maybe_ felt pity for the Architect, but that alone would not make her so furious that she turned her back on her commanding officer in a very uncharacteristic display of sheer rudeness. Parette had pushed her harder as far as insults and petty stupidity went and she hadn’t even blinked, just took whatever he said with a professional “Yes, sir.”.  And then, she unwittingly gave him the answer.

“He’s no different!” The sentence was almost a wail. “Not at all!”

“Different than…who, Beth? Parette?”

“Damn Parette to the _void_!” Beth cursed. “Not that Maker-cursed idiot: _Her!”_

“Oh, Beth.” Keiran started to reach out a hand, thought better of it. “Beth, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Meredith did to you.”

She winced at the name, “He wouldn’t _care!_ Not any more than she did. I don’t matter to him! I’m just a….a pawn! A tool, no different than a sword!”

“Beth, you know, he lets you get away with a lot….”

Keiran knew that was the wrong thing to say the second it came out of his mouth. Ceyrabeth’s face went cold…and then she tripped over the hem of her dress.  She grabbed two fistfuls of the skirt in hands that shook with fury, turned around and stalked away without another word. Once she got into her tent, she ripped the dress off with a howl, pulling at the sleeve so hard that it actually tore. The boots went next, then the earring. Beth stood there, looking at the pile of expensive frippery at her feet until she absolutely couldn’t stand to look at it a second longer.

“I’ll take it back to him,” She decided aloud. “Dump it right into his lap.” And then she realized- she had nothing else to wear. She hadn’t expected to need either her arming coat or her uniform for the rest of the night so she had dropped both off at the launderers. They would be delivered very early the next morning…which didn’t help her now. She still wore the slip that went under the dress, but with as sheer as it was, she may as well have been wearing nothing. She would be damned if she would put that Maker-cursed gown back on again…so she gathered everything up and stalked out clad only in her slip, barefooted and the wind whipping her hair around her face.  

She ignored the shocked looks she was receiving from those around her as she passed the command tent, now dark, and continued on to Sul’s personal dwelling.   She raised her hand to knock, “Fuck it!” she snarled under her breath and she ripped the tent flap back and strode in.

Pellinore had been saying something to Atiya who stood next to a seated Sul, but all conversation stopped when he saw her. Her expression could have stopped a Hurlock in its’ tracks. In her sheer white chemise, with her long hair in a wind-whipped tangle, she could easily have passed for a vengeful specter.

“Captain…?” He began cautiously, his eyes on Ceyrabeth.

“Commander Pellinore, Atiya, would you excuse us please?” Sul instructed the pair calmly.

“Yes, sir.” Pellinore was more than happy to go and departed the tent with all haste. Atiya was a bit more reticent.

“Captain…”

“He said _go_!” Ceyrabeth roared. The Qunari woman looked at Sul again, and at his nod she left the tent as well. Whirling, the elf then turned on Sul, “How… _dare you_?!” Her rage broke like a tidal wave. “You...you…bastard! Black- souled, heartless carrion eater! You’re fit for nothing but the Void and I hope it swallows you alive!”

Sul rose from his seat, arms clasped behind his straightened back.   His eyes now once again shone scarlet so brightly they could be seen through the cloth covering them, “By all means, Commander: permission to speak freely granted.”

“Maker spit on you and your ‘permission’!” She started pacing, the dress and accessories still in her arms. "I have had it with your plots and your puzzles and plans! With...with your schemes and your fake civility and all the time you're...you're intimidating or you're manipulating and...and…" She was so angry she could barely form words. She hurled the items in her arms at him; they landed with a thump in a pile at his feet. “This priceless Ferelden noble’s dress? I don’t want it! I don’t want the jewel that you likely charmed off the ear of a queen, or the boots or any of it! Not your treasures or your genius or your madness or your secrets or…"

Sul removed his bindings and focused on her, the scarlet glass taking the shape of eyes as blooms of violet appeared. “What is it that you do want, Commander?”

“I wanted to lead my own men, to know them! I wanted to make a place for myself! I wanted my service to matter!” She choked on the lump of her throat, “I wanted you to be different than _her_ , but you’re not! She sent me to choose death or dishonor even though I gave her _everything_ and so did you!”

“She,” Sul said with a frown, “Meredith,” His voice turned contemplative, “I see.  If it brings you any measure of peace, it was always intended that you would be selecting those accompanying you into the Deep Roads.  You would need people that you already trust on such a dangerous assignment,” His eyebrows rose a fraction, “Does that assuage your concerns about the mission, Commander?”

“My _name_ is Ceyrabeth!” She all but screamed.  Grabbing his hand, she placed it over her chest, right where her heart threatened to pound through her skin. "And I am flesh and bone and blood!   Living! I am real! I am not a pawn or an element of your plans, I am a person!   And so are you!”

"Then your feelings are not regarding the mission, I take it?"

“They. Are. Not.”

“Then what does all of this…” He indicated her state of undress and anger, “…have to do with anything?”

Without thinking, Ceyrabeth grabbed his head in both hands, gripping his salt and pepper hair in her fists. “ _Everything_!”

She slammed her mouth to his in a kiss that tasted of fire and ash and hope and despair. Tears poured down her cheeks, the dam finally broken as she realized why it hurt so much. She loved him and had been in love with him ever since she saw him weep tears of blood for a lost little girl that mutilated herself to survive.

 When they finally parted, Sul’s eyes were violet, streaked with blue and green as he regarded her.   His expression was tender but also sorrowful as he wiped the tears from her face. She closed her eyes at his gentle touch, heaved a deep shuddering breath.

“Waste no tears on me, Ceyrabeth Vallorin, nor your passions. I have no heart to give you,” Sul whispered, “No soul to pledge to you. No mind to shape towards your desires.   All of that and more has been sacrificed for the will to do what must be done for this world and for what remains of the man I once was.”

Her heart broke at the glimpse of his soul, wounded beyond what she could even comprehend. Wordlessly, she loosened the ribbon holding her chemise and let it slip down and free from her body. Nude, she stood before him, her skin so pale it seemed almost luminous.

“You’re wrong,” She whispered and taking his hand in hers, nestled her cheek in his palm, “You have more of a mind, you have more of a heart and as the Maker is my witness, you have more of a spirit—an indomitable spirit—than any man or woman I have ever known.”

She took his other hand in hers, pulled him toward his bed and he followed her without protest. “And I will prove it to you, Drachaen Sul: this night and every night until you see what I see,” She blew out one of a pair of burning candles, the sole points of light within the room.

   “And what is it you see?” He asked her softly as her hands went to the buttons of his white uniform.

“How rare and beautiful you truly are,” And then she leaned over and blew the last candle out.

 


	16. How Rare and Beautiful

Ceyrabeth woke from a light doze in the watery gray light that precedes dawn.  The mabari that had accompanied Tallis and been chased away by Osen had regained his courage and had somehow found his way into the tent.   It cocked its head at her and looked thoroughly confused.

“What?” She demanded quietly.  The mabari simply turned and left the tent.   She watched it go, “Crazy dog” she muttered as she looked about.  For a moment, as she remembered the prior hours, she was elated…and then, her brain caught up.

Maker damn her, she had done it again. She had vigorously pursued Meredith despite her objections that it wasn’t professional and now she had done it to Sul.

Sul, who currently lay beside her, breathing soft and slow and by all appearances slept. Sul, who was singularly the best lover she could have imagined- not that her experience was extensive. He applied the same precision, the same power to his lovemaking that he did to everything else.   And yet, it seemed to her that, at least for him, bringing her pleasure was an expression of that power.  Her cries of ecstasy were his cries of victory.   It made him an extraordinary passionate and generous lover beyond anything she had known from another.

.Ceyrabeth wanted nothing more than to curl into his warmth, kiss him awake and watch the eyes that were currently filed with shapes of gold and green bloom into violet bursts. But…that wasn’t for her. He had left his heart with the mysterious Violette- he had all but said so when he said that he had no heart to give her. She hadn’t expected him to love her; that would have been asking too much. But she hoped that she had at least given him a glimpse of the happier times. Now she could give him something else; a decorous exit, and a discreet, obedient commander. Pellinore and Atiya, and whoever saw her march of rage knew she had entered; hopefully no one would see her leave.

She closed her eyes against threatening tears. She missed him already. She waved her hand before his eyes to verify that he slept.  He did not stir and she couldn't resist leaning over to brush a feather-light kiss upon his forehead before she slid quietly out of bed.

“Stay. Please.”

Ceyrabeth froze.  In all their time together she had never heard him use that tone or that word.  Not like that.    She managed a smile, “How long have you been awake?”

“Days. I have lost count.”

She frowned, “Wait, you weren’t asleep just now when I…” She pantomimed waving her hand in front of his eyes.  

A sardonic smile crossed his lips and he shook his head his pupils taking a human shape.   She blushed and began to laugh with her hands over her face, “Oh that’s just embarrassing.”

“You’re afraid.”

She stopped laughing and looked up at him abruptly, staring into his yellow eyes, “How did you know?”

“Because I can see it.”

She frowned, “You can see--?”

“I am not Meredith.”

             Her embarrassment intensified, “I didn’t— “

“You did,” He interrupted gently, “And if you are willing to live by those words that you spoke so sweetly earlier, you will have the evidence you require to believe me,” He extended his hand to her.

She bit her lip as his eyes began to change color: streak of green, blue and violet appeared like cracks in flax colored irises.   Then with a nod, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her back into his bed.  She lay on her side and he wrapped his body around her.  She could feel every inch of his skin pressing against her own, his arm curled around her shoulder and pillowing her head.

She nuzzled his hand gently, “I was right about you being from Val Royeux wasn’t I?”

“You were right…,” He kissed her cheek and she closed her eyes with a blissful smile. “…about everything.”

She pressed against him until he rolled onto to his back so she could rest her cheek on his chest. Beth lay there listening to his heartbeat and tracing her fingers across his skin, but then she frowned; some of his skin had a strange texture to it.  There were large patches that were completely smooth and had an almost waxy complexion to it.  Like scar tissue but not quite.

“It’s a side effect of regeneration potions,” He answered her unspoken question, “Over time, the skin loses a portion of its texture and definition.   Multiple applications result in a more pronounced loss. The flesh regrown becomes more generic in form.”

She ran her hand across his body; the patches of regenerated flesh seemed to cover most of his slender frame.

“How many times have you had to regenerate your skin?” She asked, her tone laden with dread.

“Too many.”

Her heart shuddered at his tone, “What terrible injuries you must have sustained,” She whispered and then her fingers ran over a strange groove in his flesh, “What’s this?” She asked.

“Some wounds cannot be fully healed.  These were received when I underwent the ritual to transform my eyes.”

Her fingers searched his body and found more such scars, along his chest, his shoulders, his arms and stomach.  She gently touched his face and found at least two upon his cheek and brow: small dents, like divots as if bits of his body had been somehow scooped out of him.

“What in the Maker’s name did they _do_ to you?”

For a time, all that she could hear was his heart beating through his chest and the steady rhythm of his breathing, “We are all tested,” He answered in a whisper, “The mages have their Harrowing, the Templars their Vigil, the Wardens their Joining.  And I had the _Quassus Oculari.”_

“I don’t understand.”

He bent his head and kissed her brow tenderly, “Nor would I ask you to.  It is not for you to see or to know.  That burden is mine.”

“As so many are, “She sighed before pressing her lips to the regenerated flesh of his chest.  She knew about both burdens of the heart and carrying scars; she wouldn't push him about it further.  Besides, marked or no, she still hungered for him in all his glorious imperfection.

“Drachaen?”  Her voice turned timid.

“Hmm?”

“I’m…sorry. If I was…” She felt her cheeks flare. “Out of practice.”

He looked down at her and smiled, “You have no cause to apologize.”

“Okay good,” She smiled, relieved. “I’ve never actually…”

“Made love with a man before?”

She blushed, hid her face in his shoulder, “Don’t say it like that! It makes me sound like I’m some vestal maiden fresh out of the Chantry,” She looked up at him with a stubborn tilt to her jaw, “I _have…_ dallied…with others before.”

“I have no doubt.”

“And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?” She sat up partially and did her best to look outraged.

“It means you’re too beautiful a woman to have remained alone.”

She colored again and settled back against his body, “Says the blind man,” She quipped, her mock indignation thoroughly diffused.

“Has it been a long time for you?”

She nodded, a little surprised that he would ask. “Five years almost. I must creak like a rusty hinge.” She gave a little embarrassed smile, “It’s a local expression where I’m from.”

“You do not usually go so long without taking a lover?” He asked curiously.

“Not…lovers, per se. One actual lover. Quite a few distractions.” She shrugged, “There weren’t a great many ways to pass the time in the barracks.”

“For how long?”  

“A few months at a time here and there.  You meet someone and you just have that…connection, you know?” Her expression turned somber, “But then when I finally saw Meredith again…” The name sounded wrong here, and she trailed off. He kissed her hair gently, a gesture of reassurance and she laughed again, self-consciously, “Okay, enough about me.  What about you? How many young ladies have been swept away by the dashing Captain Sul?”

“Just one, nearly twenty years ago,” Sul’s expression became far away, “She was my wife.  I used to call her ‘Violetta’. It means ‘my flower’,” He smiled slightly, “She loved flowers.  I used to hide Andraste’s Grace in her wardrobe; they would leave their scent on her clothes,” A pall crossed his features, “I received word that she died many years ago.”

Ceyrabeth felt her soul crack iat the word ‘wife’. She tried to not let him see. “Twenty years…that’s…a very long time. I’m sorry that she died. It must have hurt you a great deal. Were you out on a mission? You said you ‘received word’…”

His calm composure began to waver, “I…would rather not discuss it further.”

She nodded, “It’s all right.  I’m sorry,” She stroked his hair back and rested her cheek against his head. “I wish that we didn’t have such secrets between us.”

“I wish that too,” Sul replied solemnly.  He sighed, a sound of such terrible weariness that it made her ache inside, “But you can either know me or you can care for me.  You cannot do both.”

She scowled at him, “What are you talking about?”’

“I’ve done terrible things, Ceyrabeth.   I will _continue_ to do terrible things,” He reached up and touched her cheek, cracks of gold showing through the violet in his eyes, “Were you to know them all, you would regard me as you did the day we met: a monstrosity to be feared,”

“I have seen terrible things, Drachaen.” She reminded him gently. “And I am still here.”

He stared out into some faraway place, “You were not wrong about what you said.  I am fit for the Void and one day I have no doubt I shall be sent there.”

“I didn’t mean it,” She stretched her leg over his hips and straddled him, dotting kisses across his hairline, down his brow, along his cheeks before capturing his mouth with hers, “I swear by the Maker I did not mean it.”

He reached up and tucked a lock of red hair behind her pointed ears, “I know. But that does not it make any less true.”

 “No more words, _ma'arlath_ ,” She said gently, “Just kiss me.”

And as the dawn arrived there were no further words spoken save for her cries of passion and they themselves remained wordless.

This time when Ceyrabeth woke up, she woke up flailing from a dream where she and Tallis were eating dinner with The Architect and fifteen of his closest allies. “Maker damn it all!”

“What is it?” Sul asked softly.

“The mission!” She expostulated. “I’m so late! I haven’t even packed!” She was still half-asleep, her brain fighting to clear itself.

“The mission has been postponed,” Sul informed her.

“What? Why?” She asked whirling on him.

“Because it is my army and it is my mission,” He gently tugged her back down and started tucking the blankets around her, “And because today I want you here with me.”

 “Oh.   Oh!” Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, “Perks of command?”

“Something like that,” He confirmed as he finished tucking her in.  She wasted no time in entwining her sinuous form around him.

“So we have…?”

“The entire day. Yes.”

She closed her eyes and shivered with delight: an entire day free of responsibility, of duties and tasks.  An entire day in his arms.  

“I thought it would make a good going away gift,” Sul continued.

“It is perfect,” She confirmed, “Now that’s the last time you mention anything about my going anywhere because I…” She rolled over onto her stomach and draped an arm around his chest and her leg across his thighs, ”…am going nowhere,” She grinned mischievously. “Captain’s orders.”

“Captain’s orders,” He kissed her head gently.

“You roll your ‘r’s a little every now and then,” She had a look of impish satisfaction on her face, “Did you know that?”

“Do I?”

“Just a little. It’s one of the reasons I was able to tell you were from Val Royeaux,”  She winked, “Although your accent is much nicer than traditional Orlesian,” She made a face and affected a comically heavy Orlesian accent. “They always sound so, how do you say, snotty, no?  You cannot even tell what they are saying most of the time, no?”

He looked at her with wry amusement, “I traveled a great deal and learned many languages.   Along the way I learned to adopt mannerisms and ways of speaking.  I suppose whatever accent I possess is a hodgepodge of all those different dialects.”

“Well, I love it,” She squeezed him tightly, “Sometimes, especially if you’re making a speech, it almost sounds like music to the ears.”

“I can assure you, I am no bard.”

She laughed at his self-deprecation.  His humor cropped up at the strangest times; he possessed a tremendous dry wit.   She found herself enjoying it more. She was enjoying everything more and more in his company. “Were you born in Val Royeaux?”

 “I do not remember,” Sul admitted, “I was sold to the Orlesian Chantry when I was four years of age.”

“Your family left you in the care of the Chantry to be raised as a cloistered brother? I can only imagine what that must have been like at the Grand Cathedral itself.”

“You misunderstand.  I was not ‘left in the care’ of the Orlesian Chantry.  I was sold to a man who was a member of the Church.  One of many.   We were kept as slaves to assist in the day to day running of the Grand Cathedral.”

Ceyrabeth looked appalled, “That’s not possible!”

“I can assure you that it is,” Sul settled against his pillow, “We were taught enough to read the Chant and fulfill our obligations, reading reports, copying rare texts and so on. But we were forbidden from speaking to anyone, including each other,” He smiled faintly, “As a boy, I created my own written language based on the ancient dialects I found in the books in the library.   I managed to teach it to the others and we would exchange messages back and forth.”

“But…you were children!   And slaves! Surely the Divine—“

“The Divine knew all about it I can assure you,” He informed her, “It was one of many hidden shames of the institution.  It is a practice that began during the Orlesian Chantry’s genocide of the elves. Afterwards, no one amongst the faithful would accept elven servants but the church’s coffers were too drained from declaring Exalted Marches with every age that they could not afford to hire human servants,” He shrugged, “So they accepted ‘donations’.”

“I’m so sorry,” She whispered.

“It was what it was. I received a better education amongst the tomes of the library than I could have in the slums of Val Royeux and in time, I was conscripted into the Templars as a squire.”

Ceyrabeth looked puzzled, “’Conscripted’? I’ve never heard of anyone being conscripted into the Templars.”

“During my time at the Grand Cathedral, I discovered many discrepancies in the reports that were being submitted by the grand clerics to the Divine.”

“What sort of ‘discrepancies’?”

“Requisitions for strange materials, funding for initiatives and pet projects that never existed.   Transfers of key personnel to locations around Thedas that I couldn’t understand immediately.   In a few months, a pattern emerged. One of the Grand Clerics had formed a political alliance consisting of various factions within the church and several other Grand Clerics.  I believe the plan was to oust the Divine.”

“So what happened?”

“One day, the Divine was holding a conclave with the Lord Seeker, the Knight Commander of the Templars, and various Grand Clerics. As I served her wine I said, ‘ _Bonjour_ Your Eminence.  I am a slave that was purchased several years ago by one of your clergymen.   Several of your Grand Clerics are plotting to overthrow you, and here is the proof,’. I gave her, the Lord Seeker and the Knight Commander copies of my findings.  I was nine at the time so they did not take me seriously at first.”

 “I still remember how the Grand Clerics tittered about what an ‘adorable and precocious child’ I was, until I started reading aloud names and dates. That got the Lord Seeker’s attention and by the second page, everyone had stopped laughing. The Knight-Commander decided that my skills would be better served as Templar.”

She tried to wrap her head around what she had just heard, “You…called out the Grand Clerics…in front of everyone….and you were only NINE?!” She couldn’t imagine him trapped, misused…sold like he was of no value. It set her blood boiling, and suddenly she was scraping her fingernails across her palms in an effort to distract herself- a mannerism left over from when showing emotion could get her killed.  He reached over and twined his fingers with hers, effectively stopping the motion. She glanced up. “I’ll bet you _were_ adorable. And precocious.” The words came out sadder than she had intended. She huffed out a breath. “Well, damn the Chantry and their slavers. I hope they all get the pox.”

“Now, that is a surprise to hear from you.”

Her expression darkened. “Now I understand your hate.” But then she shook her head in vehement denial, “No no no! Today isn't for pain. Today I want to soak in your warmth and learn what brings you joy and comfort.  I want to gloat over the fact that I can do _this_ ,” She kissed him full on the mouth for a long moment, her voice husky when she pulled away.  “whenever I want. I want to hear you talk about the places you've been and the things you’ve seen, the beautiful and bizarre. I want _you_ , all of you and only you and the rest of the world can go to the Void. Is that too much to ask?”

 “Not today.”

And so they spent the day talking.   Atiya brought them food and drink when they were hungry though Ceyrabeth remained under the blankets to preserve modesty before the Qunari, much to Sul’s quiet amusement.  When they tired of talking, they made love with alternating bouts of slow tenderness and frenzied passion before collapsing into each other’s arms.  

“Sleep,” He murmured after a particularly intense bout of intimacy that had left the young woman weak with fatigue.

“No,” She said stubbornly holding him tighter, “If I sleep, the day will end faster.”

“All days must end,” He brushed his lips across her brow, “It is all in how we greet the new day that matters most.  Sleep and I will watch over you.”

She was asleep before she had finished smiling at the thought.

Like climbing a long staircase, she awoke slowly into a feeling of warmth and utter contentment.  She opened her eyes to see to see herself reflected in twin mirrors of violet glass.

“Hello there,” Sul said softly, rolling his ‘r’s much to her delight.

“Did you watch me sleep the entire time?”

“Of course I did.”

“Weren’t you bored?”

He took her hand and kissed it softly, “I would trade all the riches of the Imperium for a lifetime of smelling your skin,” He murmured.

She felt hot lightning flash through her body, “Good answer,” she replied shakily.  They shared a gentle kiss and she rested against his body, “Tell me that story again.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.   All of them.”

“You know them all already.”

“I don’t care,” She held him tightly, feeling time pressing down on her, stealing him from her with every passing moment, “I want to hear you say it all again,” She looked up into his face, her eyes shimmering pools of tears that threatened to spill in the face of the inevitable, “Please?” Her whisper was a plea.

And so, he did.  And she knew that she would have to hold his words as tightly as she could within her heart because she knew that the time was fast approaching where she would give anything to hear him say them just one more time.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, Ceyrabeth took flint and tinder off the table beside the bed and turned to the lantern. The flame flared blue for a brief second before taking on the steadier glow of the wick.

“What is that song?” Sul asked curiously. Ceyrabeth looked at him, confused.

“I was singing?”

“Yes. ‘Lanntair solar, lanntair soilleir’…”

She laughed. “It’s actually a children’s game. The ‘shadow man’, usually my father or mother, would hide a lantern somewhere in the house. When one of us found it, usually me, would sing the song until we could get it to light and the other, my brother or my sister, had until the end of the song to hide. We had to find them using the light of the lantern. It worked best at night of course.”

            “Of course. Will you sing it again?”

Ceyrabeth nodded before sitting on the bed next to him, the lantern beside her on the table.

_“Lanntair solas, lanntair soilleir_

_dalradh a troimh an na oidche_

_lorg an fheadhainn a bha a chall_

_a shealltainn dhaibh_

_an slighe dhachaigh.”_

Somewhere around the third line, she stopped being self-conscious. It was as though the meaning had changed for her; it took on the reverence of a prayer. When the last line was finished, she raised her chin, looked at Sul full on and translated without being asked.

“Lantern light, lantern bright. Guard against the dark of night. Find the lost ones that I seek, and show them the way home to me.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I was the lantern to my siblings,” She took a deep breath, “And now…now you are the lantern to me.” Her eyes had gone wide and far away. “The guard against the dark. The way home.” She shook her head, laughed a little as color rose into her cheeks. “That’s happening to me more and more lately. My father used to do that; go a million miles away and you knew the next words out of his mouth would be something true, something that needed to be said. Why is that, do you think?”

"Because like most great men, strength and wisdom ran through his spirit and his blood because he was touched by the Maker," He touched her hair gently, "As are those who descend from such blood and spirit,"   Sul looked down at her, noting her look of surprise at his mention of the Maker. "I don't believe in the Orlesian Chantry.   I never said I didn't _believe_."

“What do you believe?" She asked tremulously.    After all this time to believe that he might actually _share_ in her faith…

"I believe in the power that the Maker gave us.   The power that led Andraste to lead a revolution, and the power that gave her strength to walk into the flame.   The power of mercy that moved Hessarian to end her life.  And the power of humanity to time and time survive and overcome evil and madness."   Sul gestured to his eyes, "I sacrificed the light to dwell in darkness until the end of my days.  It is now and forever denied me.   But I still believe in it, because I feel it as I feel the wind in my hair, the rain on my skin.”

“And love.   I believe in love because I have felt it."   He settled back, "I cannot see these things any longer.   But I can still feel them, and I can still believe in them.  And you, Ceyrabeth. I believe in you"

Ceyrabeth took his hand in hers and squeezed it with a smile.  “My mother was Dalish,” She told him then shivered slightly as he lightly ran the fingers of his free hand across her thigh. Suddenly she was having trouble forming words. “She…was a devotee of Mythal. I used to trace her _vallaslin_ and when I was older I asked her what it was. ‘A promise,’ She said. ‘A way to keep our gods close. A way to remember the light we were born for.’” She looked at him wistfully. “I wish…I wish I had a way to keep you close. Down in the dark…” She grimaced at the thought of the stone pressing down over her head, “It would be nice to have a way to remember the light of this day.”

Sul’s expression flickered, showing something akin to regret.

“What is it?” She asked gently.

“I have no tokens to give you,” He confided, “I own nothing.  Whatever treasures I possess go towards the Legion and its people,” He held up his hands, “I have just these hands.   In the end, I will die a pauper.”

Ceyrabeth nuzzled his hand, “You’ve already given more me than I had any right to expect   More than I have ever received from another person,” She smiled wryly, “Not all treasures are made of gold and carry with them histories reaching back to the Ancient Age, Captain Sul.”

He smiled sardonically, “Point taken.   But there is…something,” He seemed to consider a moment the rose from the bed and padded to his alchemy cabinet.   In the flickering lantern light, his nude form seemed more sinuous, blending with the shadows as if they belonged to him.  Ceyrabeth felt a stab of hunger at the sight and she bit her lower lip as she watched the roll and flex of his skin and the muscles underneath s as heaved open the massive wooden door with both hands, his back and arms stretching and flexing to coerce the heavy wooden portal to creak open.

He removed a small clay pot, a bowl, and a blue vial along with a small leather bound bundle and returned to the bed, “When we were traveling through the Exalted Plains,” He explained, “We encountered a Dalish _aravel_ in distress.    We escorted them to their destination and the Keeper gave me this as payment,” He handed the small clay pot to Ceyrabeth who opened it carefully and scrutinized its contents.

“This is _vallaslin!_ ” She exclaimed.

“Dalish blood ink, yes,” He confirmed, “Used for their tattoos. As you know, it is a sacred substance to their people.  I was honored to receive it,” He held up the blue vial, “This is a type of solvent I created for the treatment of my…condition,” He poured it into the small bowl and undid the leather bundle revealing several stylus’ of various shapes and sizes, “May I have that please?”

She handed him back the pot and dipping one of the stylus into it dripped a few drops of blood ink into the blue mixture, “Shield your eyes,” He warned. Ceyrabeth turned her head just in a time as there was an audible _whoosh_ and a bright blue flame flared into existence in the bowl.   It died down almost immediately and Ceyrabeth turned to examine it: there was the strong scent of ozone and the contents of the bowl had congealed to a degree.   Steam rose from it as it hissed and bubbled, “This mixture is used to clean, disinfect and cauterize wounds.   It has an energetic reaction to blood.”

“I can see that,” She admitted, “You put this stuff on your injuries?”

“Frequently.”

“That sounds very painful.”

“To a degree perhaps, but its efficiency cannot be denied.” He leaned back, “I can trace a design on your skin with _vallaslin_ and then apply the solvent to it.   It will sear the design into your skin. It will, however, hurt a great deal.”

“I would let you drag me through the Void itself if it meant I could hold your hand,” Ceyrabeth replied solemnly as Sul’s eyes shifted in color between green and violet.

“Very well,” He acquiesced, “What would you like done?”

“Something that is yours,” She thought for a second then grinned, “A word or something from that secret language you designed at the Grand Cathedral,” She shrugged, “I like the idea of you once being a child and there should be at least _one_ happy memory associated with it.”

He gave a short chuckle, “Very poetic,” He thought for a moment then nodded, “I have something that I believe will work.   Would you prefer that I sketch it out for you before I apply it to your body?”

“No,” She replied simply and held out her arm palm up.

He hesitated, “Someone once told me that _vallaslin_ wasn't a sign of renown amongst the ancient elves but one of possession,"   He regarded her intently, "That those who bore the mark of another belonged to them in every way.   All that they were and ever would be was now and forever in the hands of another."

His eyes became a shade of emerald streaked with lilac as she stretched out her arm towards him without a word.

Dipping the tip of the stylus into the blood ink, he carefully began to trace a design onto her flesh.   He was meticulous in his work, his fingers roaming over her arm with a familiarity that heated her blood. It seemed as if he focused on her skin one fraction of an inch at a time.   The level of detail and attention paid simply to her arm and the intensity of it made her tremble a little.

“Please hold still,” He asked.

“Sorry,” And she dug the nails of her free hand into her thigh to keep from moving any further.

“This is the constellation Kios,” He explained, “Often Referred to as "Chaos" in the common tongue.   It is thought to represent the Old God Zazikel and was thought to be an ill omen.”

“Oh wonderful,” She huffed playfully.

“Bear with me,” He assured her in return, dipping the stylus in the ink and continuing with his work, “This constellation was so feared that in the Towers Age, there was a failed movement within the Orlesian Chantry to change the constellation to a representation of a dove.  Legends say that the Revered Mother behind the effort fell from a bridge to her death shortly after.”

“Only you would choose a symbol that caused widespread panic amongst the faithful and actually managed to result in fatalities,” She said repressing a laugh.

“Be that as it may, I have always found the figure a source of inspiration.”

“Then so will I,” She reassured him.

After several long minutes passed in comfortable silence.   Sul released her arm and ran his fingers lightly over his work, examining it, “What do you think?”

With some reluctance, she pulled her arm from his grasp and examined it, “It’s hard to tell in this light,” She confessed.

“The _vallaslin_ is meant to be embedded under the skin and in several layers to make it more visible,” He took the bowl with the burning blue substance in his hand, “This will achieve a similar effect.   Give me your other hand and hold tightly.”

With a determined set to her jaw, Ceyrabeth slid her small hand into his and squeezed tightly.

“Are you ready, Ceyrabeth?”  He asked.   She gave a short jerk of her head and braced herself.   He poured the blue substance over her arm and it immediately began to bubble and hiss.

“Maker!” She yowled, gripping his hand tight. She resisted the urge to pull her arm away as he applied a liberal amount of the glowing blue gelatin to her arm.   Tiny blue fires flared up and went out, sparks shot off her skin as the smell of ozone and seared flesh filled the air, “Andraste’s flaming arse, that _hurts!_ ”

“Nearly finished,” He told her.   He applied the last of the solvent and held her arm in place, “Now we wait whilst it finishes setting into the skin.”

She gritted her teeth, “Feels like my arm is cooking!”

“It essentially is.”

“Wonderful,” She gasped again, “Oh, I think I hate this!”  Several excruciating moments passed and with awful slowness, the pain receded and she found she could breathe again, “Maker's mercy, that will wake you up in the morning,” She exhaled hard and looked at her arm. It appeared to be a big blue smudge surrounded by angry red skin, “Is it supposed to look like this?” She asked tentatively.

“Here,” He loosened his grip, his touch becoming gentler, and with great care began to peel pieces of blue solvent from her arm, “The top layer of skin underneath is dead and can be safely removed but where it adhered to the blood ink…”  Painstakingly he worked to peel and scrape away the dead flesh.  To her credit, she only winced occasionally as he went about his task.

“And now we rinse,” Taking a water skin he poured cool water over what remained and she sighed in relief.

“Much better,” She admitted. Then she looked down and gasped: her arm was _glowing._ It was faint but she could see it clearly: a one-winged figure with his arm upraised holding a sword.

“Do you approve?” Sul asked.

“It’s amazing!” She whispered, running her hand over it.   It was warm to the touch still and it sparkled and shone in different ways depending on how she moved her arm to catch the light.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She grinned like a child with a new toy, then frowned, “But what about the word you were going to put in?”

“Turn it sideways.”

Rotating her arm, she did so and laughed: the points of the constellation and the lines when viewed from the side formed a single word:

 _“Sæsteorra,_ ” She sounded the word aloud.

“It means ‘radiance’,” He kissed her other hand before releasing it, “May it always remind you of the light you bring to the world…my own included.”

Ceyrabeth put her hand against her heart, unsure if it was going to burst or break. “And to think, I once tried to kill you.” _And now you are killing me…_ The unspoken thought made her throat ache. To stem the tears, she braced both of her hands on his thighs, leaned forward and kissed him long and deep. “How can I repay you?” She whispered.

Silently, he held out his arm palm up.  Her brow furrowed in confusion then her eyes flew open, “You want me to--?”

“I do,” He said with a ghostly smile, “This area, here on my arm, is one of the few patches of my body not ravaged by scar tissue or regenerated ten times over,” He took her hand in his and placed it on the unmarked patch of skin, “It is a small part of myself: whole and intact,” He squeezed her hand tightly, “And I want you to have it.”

Ceyrabeth took a few minutes to find words, “I’m not much of an artist.”

“I’m not looking for art,” He replied evenly, “I want what you want: a memento, a reminder of your presence and our time together during your impending absence.”

She swallowed past a lump in her throat, “Thanks for the reminder,” She croaked before exhaling hard, “Okay, but you’re blind.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” He said dryly and she flushed.

“Okay, I earned that but my point is, I mean, will you be able to, you know, see it?”

“No,” He replied with a rueful shake of his head. “But I will be able to _feel_ it,” He offered her an encouraging smile, “And we’ve discussed how that’s the most important thing in the end.”

She could offer no counterargument and knew better than to try at this point, “Okay. What would you like?”

“Whatever matters most to you.”

It was her turn to grin, “Wouldn’t a portrait of yourself be a strange tattoo?”

Sul chuckled quietly, “All right then; a symbol.  Something personal to you, an intimate thing of a private nature.”

"Blind might be good in this case," She joked as she picked up the stylus. "That way you won't regret my chicken scratch which I guarantee won't be a shimmering combination of constellation and self-made language that whispers like song." She stared beyond his shoulder, considering...and caught sight of the lantern. Her grin flashed out. "Perfect." She said, and started drawing.  

His arm twitched, “Does that hurt?” She asked concerned.

“It tickles.”

She gaped at him, “You’re _ticklish?!_ ”

“I used to be,” He informed her, “It would appear parts remain so.”

Repressing a laugh, she returned to her work and he managed to remain still as the time ticked by.   Unconsciously, she stuck her tongue out to the side as she worked, her gaze fiercely focused on her design.

"There." Ceyrabeth set the stylus down with a sigh. She surveyed her work critically. It was very passable, if rather minimalist. "And the best part is that no one will ever tell you to your face that it's awful."

“That’s not the best part,” He corrected her, his voice low and intense.

“What do you me—Oh!” She offered a shy smile, “I mean ‘thank you’.”

He simply nodded once and handed her the bowl of glowing blue solvent, “You’re certain about this?” She asked uncertainly.

“Entirely.”

Taking a deep breath, she prepared to pour when his words came back to her.

_That those who bore the mark of another belonged to them in every way.   All that they were and ever would be was now and forever in the hands of another._

She inhaled sharply at the thought as she looked at the drawing on his arm.   Her drawing.  Her symbol.

_No, he couldn’t possibly mean—_

“Shall we?”

His voice interrupted her reverie, “Sure.”  With great care, she began to pour the substance on his arm.   He hissed in pain but remained still, “Sorry,” She said sympathetically.

“No it’s fine,” He replied, “Simply unusual.”  

“What is?” She asked, hoping to take his mind off the pain and her own from what she was doing to him.

“To feel something undiluted by scar tissue or other damage,” He tightened his hand into a fist as she reached out to take his other hand in hers, “Something unfiltered.”

The insight came to her in that moment, what exactly he was giving her; one of the few pieces that was still vulnerable, still human and alive. “So much for the virtues of perpetual numbness?”  She joked cheekily.

“Someone recently challenged my views on the matter,” He managed through clenched teeth, “Events of the last day have lent credence to her arguments.”

“Sounds like a smart person.  Someone worth listening to.”

“Yes,” He nodded, “She is.”

The warmth inside distracted her to the point that she almost didn’t notice when she had finished, “Maker, sorry! I’m done torturing you.”

He smirked as he flexed his arm, “Torture is an entirely different experience.”

Ceyrabeth winced and closed her eyes, “I really don’t want to know, do I?”

“As a friend of mine is fond of saying ‘No, you really don’t’.”

“Got it.  Let’s just finish up, all right?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

After he stretched his arm back out to her, Ceyrabeth set to work peeling away the excess residue.   A few minutes’ work and it was done.  Adorning his forearm now was a small image of a lantern that glowed in the dim light.

Running his fingers over it approvingly, he nodded, “’Tis most fitting, Ceyrabeth, thank you,” He reached out and pulled her to him taking his mouth in hers and kissing her slowly and deeply in a conflagration of taste and touch.   When he pulled away, she licked her lips and could not repress a giggle.

“That was good,” Her grin turned diabolical, “Now,” she began to trace her fingers along his chest, “What other parts of you are ticklish, hmm?”

His expression was deeply amused as he allowed her to push him onto his back and climb atop him, “It would be best to come and find out for yourself, yes?”

“Oh,” She moaned full agreement as she felt their bodies come together once more, “Sweet Maker, _yes_!” 

 


	17. Beacon In The Dark

"Ceyrabeth..."

Ceyrabeth buried her head in the pillow, exhaling hard, needing a release that didn't involve tears. She felt the change in Sul's tone.

"It's time?"

She felt him lift her hair, his lips warm against the join of her neck and shoulder.

"It is."

She huffed again, then sat up. "It’s fine. I've determined to be very brave."

"Bravery has never been a difficulty for you.”

She manufactured a smile as she swung her legs out of bed and stood.

It didn't take long for her to slip on her dress from the night before; Atiya had brought it in repaired and pressed hours earlier. She studiously kept her back to Sul, unwilling to turn until she was sure that she could do so without falling apart. When she finally did turn, he was beginning to fasten the buttons on his shirt. She stepped forward, gently nudged his fingers away and did them herself.

"Thank you," He said. Something told her that it wasn't just the buttons he was thanking her for. She smiled in reply and nodded. He tied the bindings around his eyes and took her arm as her smile became more genuine, “Unless you have objections to being escorted by a blind old man?”

"Careful, Drachaen. People will say we're in love."

"Another perk of command: a healthy disregard for what others think about your personal affairs.”

They exited his tent arm in arm.

Ceyrabeth expected him to take the quickest route back to her dwelling, which just so happened to also be the most isolated route; left and along the river. She was surprised when he turned right. She tugged his arm, "We're going the wrong way."

"Are we Commander?" He said mildly. "I thought we would take the scenic route as it were.  Unless you have an objection?"

"No....not at all."

The path that he took brought them through the heart of camp. There were people _everywhere_ , and as they passed they saluted Sul...and grinned knowingly at Beth.

Peloquin did more than grin- he outright laughed. "Mon _capitan_!" He swept into an exaggerated bow. "Commander Vallorin. You are looking downright ravishing. I wish you luck on your mission, and safe return."

"Thank you, Peloquin." She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. He winked at her before moving on. The encounter made her giddy, for a few reasons.

"Drachaen..." She whispered mischievously. "Your Orlesian is showing."

"Indeed?" He looked down at her with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"I remember reading about lovers’ niches when I was younger...a place to be seen NOT being seen...to let others carry tales..."

"Commander, how scandalous. A Templar in training no less, to be reading such things." He deadpanned.

Her laughter rang out across the courtyard, saturated with the kind of joy that made whoever heard it smile instinctively. She was still wearing a smile when they finally arrived at her tent. “Here we are.” She told him, trying to keep her voice cheerful. She went to remove her arm from his, and found herself hesitating. Ceyrabeth took a deep, fortifying breath and released him. “Thank you for escorting me.”

“The pleasure was mine,” He replied before bowing and planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles. As he held her hand, the thought that she was going to lose the warmth passing between them became overwhelming. She stepped quickly into his space and pressed close before kissing him with the same intensity of their very first kiss. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead on his.

“You’re sure you can’t stay?” She whispered.

He opened his mouth to answer and she held her hand up, “No, that was unfair.” Ceyrabeth shook her head, “I’m sorry, Drachaen. I know you can’t.” She stepped back, putting a distance that felt like miles between them. “Can you make it back? I know the bindings cut your vision.”

“I can.”

“Good. Just keep the river on your right. Don’t fall in.” She attempted humor and was rewarded with just the barest hint of a smile.

“I shall. Good night, Ceyrabeth.”

“Good night, my Captain.”

She couldn’t watch him go; she dove into her tent and tried to remember how to breathe around the fist squeezing her lungs. _You promised to be brave,_ she scolded herself as she shed her dress and folded it carefully on the chest at the foot of her bed. _You_ promised _him._

That thought gave her enough strength to keep from coming undone, but not enough to motivate her to do anything else. She blew the lantern out, and crawled into bed. Everything else could wait until morning.   Sleep was slow in coming and she whiled away the time by lightly running her fingers over her tattoo, its soft glow providing the comfort she needed to finally rest.

.:*:.

As soon as her tent flap closed, Sul spun on his heels, his affectionate expression replaced with one both purposeful and cold.   Stopping briefly at the forge, he returned to his tent bearing a boar spear and a horseshoe.  Atiya was waiting for him outside.

“I must address a complication that has arisen,” Sul informed her, “I am not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Captain,” The Tranquil saluted and he entered the tent.    The interior was dark and became even more so as he sealed the entrance flap and doused the lantern, plunging the interior into pitch dark.    Discarding his bindings, he scanned the room, hefting the spear.  He moved to the bed, gripping the spear in both hands.

Suddenly the man brought the spear up and then thrust it down through the mattress and the bedframe.   There was a loud cry from beneath and a shape darted out, but Sul was faster. He tore the spear free from the bed, brought it up again and this time thrust it through the creature’s skull, pinning it to the floor.   It yelped once then he wrenched the spear around, tearing the head free from the body.   The body fell over into a wet heap as Sul stepped away.  He took a handful of coals from the bucket and threw them into the brazier, which was still smoldering.   The blue flames roared to life filling the tent with light.

The Mabari with the spot over its eye lay in a gory heap, its severed head impaled to the floor.

“Bad dog,” Sul whispered before kneeling before the head.  Blood spurted freely from the ragged wound that had been its throat and its eyes had rolled up into its skull as death took hold.  

Then Sul pressed the horseshoe into its forehead and it screamed, a high-pitched shriek that no dog had ever made, “I presume,” he said in that deadly calm voice of his, “that you have some kind of explanation.”

The severed head continued to shriek and hiss, trying to somehow tear itself free and away from the metal that was searing it.   Its severed body began to jerk and tremble as the creatures’ internal organs pushed themselves out of the ragged wound and fused into a prehensile tentacle that whipped about frantically.   Sul stood and drove his boot into it; it shrieked and retracted back into the dog carcass that continue to shift and bubble.

Snarling and hissing, the mouth of the severed mabari head shed all its fur in a single moment and began to open its mouth wide.  Its jaws dislocated until the only a semi intact canine skull covered in gore and tissue remained.   Its snout twisted violently, breaking and pushing itself backwards into its skull. Soon the skull had rearranged itself into a vaguely humanoid shape.   Its lower mandible folded back into place and fresh muscles and tendons grew to anchor the flesh back in place.

“Master,” It hissed.  The mabari’s eyes were pushed out of their sockets and were replaced with eyes that resembled human eyes except that they seemed to be completely blue.

“You were commanded to stay away from the kennels, Chirak.”

“Not…kennel,” It gritted out, setting its jaw bone in place and spitting out a mouth full of canine teeth as human teeth replaced them, “From the wilds.”

“One of the left overs of Ostagar then,” Sul mused before turning his anger back on the creature. “Tallis? And the child? What were your intentions towards them?”

The creature’s mangled features managed to look askance, “Master told us not to feed from those who serve him.   Red haired elf girl does not serve him.  Small human child does not serve him.”

“No, but you do and you have been told time and time again to consume only who and what I provide for you.”

“But we are so hungry,” The head whined piteously.

“And that hunger nearly doomed every living thing in the realm if I remember correctly.”

Chirak did not answer; instead its tongue stretched out of its mouth and wrapped around the spear, trying to work it out of its skull.  Sul grabbed her by the scalp and forced her eyes upwards, “If you ever wish to see your people restored, the ancient races return to their homes, you will abide by my command, is that clear?”

Its eyes narrowed at him as it retracted its tongue back into its mouth, “Yes, Master.”

Sul released it, “I am sending you to accompany Commander Ceyrabeth on her expedition.”

“Master wants his new pretty girl protected,” The decapitated shapeshifted muttered around a mouthful of spear.

“If our mission is to succeed, Chirak, then hers must as well.  She must reach the thaig and plant the red lyrium idol there so that it may be recovered and brought into Kirkwall.”

“We showed you the secret of the Red,” Chirak gurgled, “You use it to poison the horned ones’ bodies to poison this city. “

“Kirkwall will be the catalyst; the start of a war that will reshape Thedas,” Sul crouched by the head again, “And whilst the rest of the world fights this war, you and you eradicated kinsfolk can be restored in safety.”

Chirak seemed to consider that, then its expression became one of acquiescence, “Very well, we will watch the pretty one, woman of Arlathan.”

The dog carcass began to twitch again.   In a single violent motion, its four legs, tail, fur and muscle were all sucked inside of itself leaving a bloody smeared lump of bone that quickly began to gelatinize becoming a translucent blob of protoplasm.     Within moments a partially formed head began to push against the sac accompanied by shoulders, arms and hands.   

Sul recognized the still-forming face and his expression twisted in a rare expression of fury, “You dared?!”   

“No!” Chirak screeched.  Sul ignored it and buried his hands into the shifting meat, gripping the incomplete man-thing by the throat and tearing it free from its pulsating womb.  The writhing mass still upon the floor shrieked in agony, sprouting tentacles in desperation to find its other half as it continued to generate the lower portions of a humanoid body.     The creature in Sul’s grip, trailed blood, half formed entrails and embryotic ooze as he slammed it against the wall, throttling it. 

“He did not belong to you!”  Sul roared, “He was an honorable man! He was not meant to be meat for the beast!”

The half-formed man-thing in his hand opened its mouth and could only emit a low wailing moan that reverberated endlessly.   It plunged its’ still unformed hands into Sul’s torso pushing itself into his flesh.  

“No!” Chirak shrieked, “It mustn’t!”

The beast began to fuse itself to Sul, drawing from the Captain’s mass to add it its own.   Sul gasped from the pain and gritted his teeth as he tightened his grip on the thing.   His eyes filled to the brim with viscous black and spilled over onto his face causing lesions and sores to form upon his skin.  Black veins began to spread from Sul’s body into the other creature.    

It began to thrash trying to get away from him and it tore its hands free from him so violently that its fingers broke off and remained imbedded in Sul’s chest.  The blind man did not relent as the black veins spread though the still incomplete half-man.   

The creature began to dissolve.   Flesh, blood, bone, organs all dissolved running through Sul’s fingers like wax as it continued to whimper and moan.   Within a few moments nothing remained of the creature but a puddle of black ichor.    Sul regarded the fingers still lodged in his waist.   They had taken a life of their own and were trying to burrow free of his body and escape.   One by one, he tore each of them out of him.   The fingers had spawned teeth and feelers emitting tinny shrieks of parasitic rage at him.   One by one he tossed each of them into the black ichor where they died screeching and wailing dissolving into nothingness.   

Then he turned his attention back to Chirak.

“It was not ready,” The severed head offered as explanation, “We would not dare attack you, Master, but it was not ready.   Incomplete was its thinking, its ability to understand.”

Sul looked down at the four bloody holes in his chest and turned his attention back to Chirak, “When she discovers what you have done, Chirak, she will destroy you and she will be well in her rights to do so.”

“She will not discover us,” It assured him, “When we are finished, when we are whole, no one will know what lies beneath.  The surface will be perfect.”

“It had best be,” Sul growled.   “Finish regenerating elsewhere. I’m tired of looking at you.”

“But,” Chirak whimpered, “We need more.  More to finish.  To replace what you destroyed.  To be whole.”

Sul stalked over and wrenched the spear free before kicking the head into the pile of writing tentacles and limbs on the floor.

“Then start with that and make do,” He hissed as the head was quickly assimilated back into the rest of the matter.   With a crackling sound like fat on a burner, the creature sprouted long insect like legs. Still dragging the bottom portion of an undeveloped man from its gaping center, it scuttled away to the rear of the tent then tunneled underneath and out of sight.

Sul looked at the wounds on his chest and scowled in displeasure.   Taking the horseshoe which, though it laid in a puddle of blood and slime somehow remained pristine, he thrust it into the coals of the blue fire.   It didn’t take long for it to begin to glow a faint azure color and gripping it with his bare hand, he pressed it against the wound, biting down on his lip to avoid screaming.    Blood welled up from the wounds, moving as if it possessed a mind of its own. It dripped down his body and began to slither away.   He knelt and slowly pressed the headed horseshoe upon the little squirming rivulets which then burst into the flame before vanishing with a hiss like steam.    Probing the wound with his other hand carefully, he found only fresh red blood and inflamed cauterized skin before he collapsed into the nearest chair with a gasp of exhaustion and pain.

“Atiya!” He called out breathlessly.

The Qunari appeared a moment later, taking in the scene with her usual calm, “Sir?”

“Get the kit” He gestured at his Blighted features with his burnt hand, “And when we’re done, my quarters will require a thorough cleaning.”

“As you say, Captain.”

The Qunari began to busy herself with her orders as Sul took a moment to study his new tattoo- Ceyrabeth’s lantern.  He traced his fingers along its lines thoughtfully.

_Oh yes, when she finds out, there will be the Void to pay._

.:*:.

When Ceyrabeth woke after a night of fitful sleep, her first thought was to burrow her head back under her pillow and refuse to face the day. “ _Brave!_.” She huffed aloud, absently running her fingers along her tattoo. Captain Sul was counting on her to complete this mission and she wasn’t going to be able to do that if she was acting like a jilted lover. After a brief, eye-opening dunk in the river, she went in search of breakfast. She wasn’t ready to risk running into Peloquin and having him make an exhibition of her, so she eschewed the officer’s mess for the enlisted.

 _The coffee is better here anyway,_ she told herself as she accepted a steaming cup from the smiling cook. Tregan caught her eye from across the tables where he was inhaling a plate of eggs and toast and waved her over. He was sitting with Mathias and Arryn. _Perfect._ Three of the four men she wanted for her mission all in one place. “Where’s Keiran?” Beth asked as she sat next to Arryn. She decided to ignore the fact that they were all looking at her with expressions of barely controlled glee.

“Nursing a hangover.” Tregan told her, “He was at that party they threw Tallis until almost daybreak. Surprised you weren’t there, actually.”

He was fishing. She studiously ignored him. “Well, I need him. Sorry for the short notice but…”

“You want us to go on the Deep Roads mission,” Mat shrugged when she looked at him in surprise. “Captain Sul sent a message with Atiya saying you would likely recruit us, so we all packed just to be sure.”

            Come to think of it, Ceyrabeth had seen Sul scribble something the day before and hand it to Atiya but she had had better things to think of at the time. “Well, he’s right. Arryn, be a dear and go get Keiran. Meet us at the north ridge over by the Requisitions Tent.” The young mage nodded and took off running with all the exuberance of youth.

After breakfast, they took a brief stop to see Commander Pellinore. The man seemed his normal, steady self, she was happy to note as he handed her the official orders and requisition papers. She missed his grin and wink, but caught the tail end of Mathias’s nod and grin in response. She whirled about with a glare, but Pellinore simply saluted her and went back to his writing. 

Arryn and Keiran were already sitting cross-legged under the canopy that served as one of the many mission staging points around camp. “Missed you at the party last night, Commander!” Keiran said slyly. Ceyrabeth ignored him too.

“As you know, we have been ordered to the Deep Roads to assist with The Architects’ mission to save his people from ruin.”

“Sounds ambitious,” Tregan leaned forward, “What exactly are we dealing with?”

“We’ll be entering the Deep Roads via an entrance in Korcari Wilds,” She explained, “Sul’s scouts managed to pinpoint the location with assistance from the Architect. They report that the entrance should be clear.”

“’Should’ eh?  That’s reassuring,” The scout leaned back in his chair, “Didn’t the horde which obliterated King Cailan’s army at Ostagar originate from this location?”

“If you’re referring to the Horde that was then obliterated at Rainesfere, then yes,” Ceyrabeth replied evenly.

“Your point,” The other man conceded.

“Which brings me to _my_ point,” Mathias interjected. “Can we really trust this Darkspawn?”

She sighed before nodding, “Yes. I think so.   At the very least, Sul seems to have enough leverage on him to ensure his cooperation.”

“And we all know that you trust the good captain,” Keiran said with a snigger.

“Ser Keiran,” She glared at him, “Shut it.”

“Aye-aye commander.”

“Dragging this briefing back to point,” Mathias commented dryly, “Exactly how are we supposed to seal the entrance?”

“I spoke with the Architect,” Arryn interjected, “He says he can seal the entrances,” Everyone was looking at him with surprise, “What? He’s very approachable for a creature of the Blight.”

“He really is,” Ceyrabeth agreed with a nod.

“I’ll take your word for that,” Tregan commented dourly, “Exactly how do we get out of the Deep Roads once we do manage to seal the entrance?”

Ceyrabeth unrolled a map and pointed, “There’s a river; the Aedros Atuna. We enter the mouth of the river near the Korcari Wilds and head upriver, gather as much information as we can about the Deep Roads, recover whatever artifacts or lore that can be salvaged,” She traced a fingernail up the line on the map, “The source of the river is in fact Lake Calenhad.”

“Near Kinloch?” Keiran asked.

“Yes.  We make our way to the surface there and we’ll receive our debriefing.”

She continued to lay out the path for them, trying to answer any questions, to reassure them of any reservations they had about the Deep Roads or the Darkspawn…but it seemed that her words were falling on deaf ears. Oh, they all seemed to listen intently enough, but any time they caught each other’s eyes the former Templars had to work to keep their professional demeanors and Arryn was a completely lost cause. Finally, she had had enough.

“I am trying to be inspirational here!” She rolled up the map and whacked Arryn with it, and then turned her ‘wrath’ on Mathias, Keiran and Tregan in turn.

“And I can’t!”

_WHACK!_

“Do that!”

_WHACK!_

“When you’re sniggering at me!” 

 _WHACK_!

Sniggering turned into barely suppressed laughter and Beth knew she was fighting a losing battle. She huffed out a displeased breath before she sat back and crossed her arms. “Fine!. Let’s hear it.”

“ _He-eyyy_!” All four men sent up a shout loud enough to hear across camp. Tregan and Arryn yanked her out of her chair, threw her to Mathias, who spun her to Keiran. Keiran linked his arm with hers. “Kingmaker,” He said with a mischievous grin. “Kingslayer.”

“’Kiiiiingmaker, kingslayer, my lord close your eyes’!” They all took up the tavern song with gusto, passing her from arm to arm in a wild dance. “’The lady’s a killer in gentle disguise! Her kiss is like velvet, her cheeks like a rose…and where our lord’s gone to nobody will know!’”

“Alright, alright!” Ceyrabeth laughed, twirled away from their grasping hands. “You’ve had your fun.”

“So’ve you, eh?” Tregan sniggered.

The boys roared as Ceyrabeth’s face flooded with color. “Alris Tregan!”

He saluted her, grinning madly, “Aye, Commander?”

“Settle in.” She grumbled, trying to keep her voice firm. “All of you.” They all settled into their original places, hints of laughter on their faces but significantly more calm for the release.  “I’d like to see any of you try that on the Captain…”

“No thanks,” Arryn shook his head firmly. “I choose life.” 

Ceyrabeth turned her gaze full on him, “I would just love to know where you learned that song, _da’len_ …maybe a closer eye is in order.”

Arryn gulped and fell silent. She got through the rest of the briefing without incident.

She released them with just under two hours to spare before they were to leave. Beth packed her meager belongings before heading to the stables. Eregost was eager to be out and away. Ceyrabeth quickly had her saddled and bridled and was just trotting past the healers’ tent when she noticed Tallis.

"Can close gaping wounds but they can't fix this damn headache?" Tallis grumbled, and stopped short when she saw the other woman. Ceyrabeth slid off Eregost’s back and the elf girl nodded.

“Didn’t see you at my going away party."

“I…was busy.”

“You sure were.” Tallis said with a knowing grin.

The other woman raised her eyebrows. "From the look of it, it was a wild party. Sorry I missed it."

"No, you're not." Tallis winked.  “I can’t believe that was _you._ ”

“What do you mean, that was me? What was me, exactly?”

“How do I put this?” Tallis tapped her finger against her chin. “At the Rose, they had a word for people like you….’Screamer’. Usually people who were first timers or with different partners than usual…and I _totally_ get it, I mean, if you’re going from a woman to a man the sensations are _whew!_ So different!”

Ceyrabeth had her face hidden in her hands before she finished the second sentence. “Tallis, please stop.” She moaned in embarrassed agony.

“Why? It’s _so_ much fun watching you blush. I’m sure the Captain agrees.”

“I _was_ going to offer you a ride,” Ceyrabeth re-mounted Eregost, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. “But I think the walk might clear your head.”

“Wait, wait wait!” Tallis touched Beth’s boot before she could ride off. “I’m sorry. Let me double?”

“That better not have any alternate meanings,” Ceyrabeth grumbled before holding her hand out to Tallis and heaving her none too gently onto Eregost’s back. “Because I don’t share.”

“Such a tragedy.”

Ceyrabeth glared at her.

“Kidding!  Besides, I’m mad at you.” She assured the other woman as they began to trot toward the distant pavilion, not sounding the least bit put out despite her words. “Also jealous as the Void. But…I’m happy for him. He needed it.  You both did. Besides,” The younger girl straightened up. “You’re not the only one who got a little release last night.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“By the way, what do they _teach_ you in those Templar barracks? Your Ser Keiran is _really_ good with his hands.”

“We’re taught how to kill people with our fingertips. A point here, a point there and it’s ’hello, Maker’.”

Tallis caught the hint and was surprisingly silent for the rest of the ride. When they reached the rise, they found a group waiting for them.

“Commander Vallorin.” The Architect nodded to her from the ground. “It is agreeable to see you again.”

“And you, Architect.” Ceyrabeth helped Tallis dismount before sliding off herself.

“I look forward to your assistance on this mission. I know,” He hesitated then forged forward, sweeping his arm to include Keiran, Mathias and Tregan. “I know that for ones with your past, assisting the Darkspawn will require great sacrifice. I wish you to know that I do appreciate your…suspension of judgement.”

“We follow Captain Sul,” she replied, answering for all of them. “Wherever it may lead us.”

The Architect inclined his head. “Indeed. I believe your Captain chose well.”

“Suck up,” Tallis whispered to Ceyrabeth, who threw a discreet elbow into her side. Truth was that Ceyrabeth was feeling a little ill at ease. The Architect was surveying her much the same way as he had when they had first met; with a strange sort of what she could only describe as hunger.

They approached the caravan.  The skies to the north had darkened considerably and there was a dry chill in the air that spoke of impending snow.

 “Good morning ladies,” Both women turned to welcome Pellinore and Atiya. “Commander,” Pellinore greeted with a nod.

Ceyrabeth smiled and nodded, “Commander,” She frowned, “Where’s Drac—Captain Sul?”

“The Captain is convalescing from his injuries,” Atiya informed her neutrally.

The other woman’s heart and brain both went into lock, “What?! What are you talking about?! Where is he?!” She started to stalk towards his tent. “I leave him for _ten hours_ and this is what happens…?”

Atiya smoothly blocked her path, “He is not to be disturbed.”

Ceyrabeth opened her mouth to tell the Qunari exactly where she could stick it when Pellinore gently took hold of her arm, “Remember your command, Ceyrabeth,” The older elf looked into her tortured expression with a sympathetic look upon his face, “And do not make the mistake of believing you are the only who cares for Drachaen Sul.”

Tallis put her hand on her other shoulder, “He’ll be okay.  He’s a tough bastard.”

Ceyrabeth closed her mouth inhaled deeply and exhaled, “I understand,” She took his hand and squeezed it, “ _Ma Serannas_ , brother.”

He nodded and stepped back and handed her a small package, “Here, this is from Peloquin.”

The elf woman sighed and unwrapped it, “Beef jerky,” She inhaled the scent of it and smiled despite herself, helping herself to a piece and no longer lamenting the fact that she had had only coffee for a breakfast. “Peloquin makes the best in camp.” 

“He included with it this note,” Pellinore handed her the parchment which she unfolded whilst she chewed.

“I can’t read this,” She said with a frown before handing it to Tallis, “Is this Qunlat?”.

“Oh you poor ignorant foreigners,” Tallis replied with playful condemnation.  Ceyrabeth just glared at her over another mouthful of jerky as Tallis chuckled and read the text, “’Asha…..ashaak sulnai daar esh—“

“In common please?” Ceyrabeth said after swallowing and tearing off another bite.

“’We gladly feast on those who would subdue us’ or more literally ‘You are who you eat…’”

Ceyrabeth spewed out the jerky from her mouth and fell to her hands and knees, gagging and attempting to force a finger down her throat.

“…P.S. Just kidding. Love Peloquin’.”

Ceyrabeth froze and looked up from her very undignified position on the ground.   Her squad was clearly restraining to the urge to rolling around on the ground and howl with laughter and Tallis had been overcome with a serious fit of the giggles.

“Master duelist or not,” Ceyrabeth vowed, “I am going to _kill_ him.”

“Come on Commander,” Tallis helped her up, “You can purge later.”

Pellinore was able to just barely maintain his composure as he handed her a long wooden box, “Here this is my contribution.”

Ceyrabeth opened the box, “Your spyglass!” She exclaimed delightedly while removing the long brass tube. Her smile turned to a concerned frown as she extended it, “But won’t you need this?”

“You’ll need it more, I imagine,” Pellinore shrugged, “And Yevvon is making me a new one,” He bowed formally, “May it help you always keep your objective in sight.”

“Thank you,” She said with a smile, collapsing the instrument and placing it carefully in the box.

“Speaking of Yevvon…,” Atiya murmured

“Yes,” Pellinore replied with a strange expression before taking a few steps back and beckoning Ceyrabeth to follow.  

With a frown, she tossed the jerky to Tallis, “Hold this for a moment,” and she followed them.    “What is it?” She asked when they were out of earshot.

“This is from Yevvon,” The Qunari replied holding out a small sack, “And myself.”

The commander took the bag from the Tranquil: it was warm to the touch and smelled of the forge.  She opened it and shook out the contents: a small charm bracelet made adorned with strangely shaped pieces of dull dark metal, “A…bracelet?”

“Yevvon received the order for it late last night from the Captain himself,” Atiya explained, “To be completed by dawn.”

Ceyrabeth scrutinized it: it was heavy and lusterless, it looked more like bits of trash from the forge all strung together than any kind of recognizable jewelry.

“Captain Sul supplied the material: an iron horseshoe that he acquired somewhere in the Anderfels. Some sort of good luck charm.  He has had it for as long as I’ve known him and has always kept it close at hand.”

The elf smiled and closed her eyes happily, “His good luck charm,” She took the bracelet and wrapped it around her thin wrist.  It was heavy and awkward; it poked her at odd angles, but it was something that had been important to him and that made it important to her, “Thank you Atiya.”

The Qunari tilted her massive horned head, “He included this as well and asked that you read it when you are on the road,” In her large hand was a small sculpture made of folded paper. 

Ceyrabeth recognized it instantly, “A dove!” She laughed remembering the story of the ill-fated attempt to alter the constellation that now adorned her arm.

“Indeed,” Atiya bowed formally and started to turn away.

“Atiya?”

The Qunari stopped and looked back at Ceyrabeth, “Yes commander?”

She bit her lip, “This isn’t easy to say…but for whatever it is worth, I’m glad that you’re here to take care of him.”

The Qunari Tranquil regarded her for a moment, her scarred mouth working in concentration, “I…do not remember what it is to feel precisely, but if I could feel, I would feel…. grateful that you have come into my master’s life.   He seems to be…. a better man in your presence.”

Ceyrabeth smiled, touched by the Qunari’s sincerity and she extended her hand, “Take care of him…and yourself, Atiya.”

“May the road always rise to meet you,” Atiya swallowing up her hand in hers and shaking it tightly.

“ _Dar ‘eth Shiral_ ,” Pellinore said “ _Sule sal’ melana_.”

“And you as well.  Goodbye my friends,” With a final bow to them both, Ceyrabeth turned and left.

“And Commander?”

She turned back, “Yes Commander Pellinore?”

He looked around and then grinned, “Do try to avoid riding yourself into a bog this time, yes?”

The other woman threw her head back and laughed, “Go stick your head in the mud… _commander,”_ Still laughing to herself, she returned to Tallis who was standing apart from the others watching the scene and looking deeply entertained.

“That was touching,” Tallis replied around a mouthful of jerky.

“How much did you hear?” The other woman sighed, taking the jerky back from her and noticing that there wasn’t a whole lot left.

“Enough to know that these people genuinely care for you,” She pointed at the charm bracelet, “Do yourself a favor though and wear that close to the skin and out of sight.”

“What? Why?”

“Old superstitions about Anderfels iron,” She replied with a shrug, “Something about it being poisonous.”

Ceyrabeth frowned and tugged her overcoat sleeve over her wrist, “A poisonous horseshoe? That’s a new one.”

“I just recount them, I don’t make ‘em up,” Tallis finished her piece of jerky and then turned to look at the caravan, “Looks like we’re getting ready to go,” She sighed, “It’s a long way to Jader.”

“Want to switch?”

“Not for all the fish pie in Starkhaven,” The younger girl laughed, “At least I get a road to travel on.   Enjoy your bogs and slime.”

“Thank you,” Her tone was thick with sarcasm, “Enjoy your weeks at sea.”

“Ugh! Don’t remind me.   The tides go in, the tides go out, up and down, back and forth…” She shook her head.

“You’re turning green,” Ceyrabeth teased, “It’s not an attractive color for you.”

“Hey I have an _amazing_ dress that says otherwise!”

Both women shared another laugh then sighed.

 “Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?” Ceyrabeth mused.

“Of course,” Tallis assured her, her tone becoming melodramatic, “Wherever there is evil to fight, I will be there.   Wherever the innocent cry out for justice, I shall appear!”

“Wherever there is Mosswine to be inhaled and sugary cakes to be eaten, you will arrive to make a drunken ass of yourself.”

“There you go,” She laughed, “Although a solid ‘no’ to the Mosswine,” She shook her head vigorously, “Never. Again,” Her face turned serious and she reached out and handed Ceyrabeth something, “Here. Since we’re exchanging gifts and all.”

The other woman looked down: in her hand was the green teardrop jewel that Tallis had worn for dinner, “ _Da’len_ , I can’t accept this!” She exclaimed, “You adored this!”

Tallis’ cheeks flushed, “It’s not like I plan on attending any soirees or visit any Orlesian Chateaus in the near future,” She shrugged, “I have no place to wear it and I would rather that you have it.  To remember me.”

Ceyrabeth grinned and shook her head, “Tallis, believe me when I say that I don’t need this to remember you.  I’ll never forget you…not matter how hard I try.”

The other girl laughed and threw her arms around the woman kissing her lightly on the lips before parting.  She brought both of her hands and placed them on either side of Ceyrabeth’s head “ _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun,”_ She smiled, “’Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun’,” She released her, “A prayer to speed you on your way, my friend since you just had to remind me of what I _will_ be dealing with in my near future.”

Ceyrabeth nodded in acknowledgement, “Thank you,” She reached behind her neck and unclasped her leather choker handing it to Tallis, “Here.   I got this from--,” She stopped remembering who she received it from and then shook her head, “It doesn’t matter.  The point is I don’t need it anymore and I’d like you to have it.”

Tallis beamed and allowed the other woman to fasten it around her neck before turning around, “Cool design!  How does it look?” She asked, striking an exaggerated pose, her expression comically coquettish as she modeled the gold setting and green inset in the center of the leather braid.

“Perfect!”  The other elf laughed.  Before she finished laughing Tallis quickly hopped onto the back of an outgoing wagon and waved, “No good-byes!” She yelled as her figure receded into the early morning gloom

“No good-byes,” Ceyrabeth confirmed more to herself than anyone else and with a firm nod, she stuffed the jewel in her belt pouch and headed towards her squad.

“Are we ready?” She asked mounting Eregost.

“We’re just waiting on the Darkspawn,” Mathias commented dourly.

“He has a name,” She admonished firmly, “And we are all to use it.”

“And he has arrived.”

Everyone turned to face the approaching Architect and then their expressions turned to shock, “What in the Maker’s name is _that_?!” Keiran asked pointing agog.   The creature that Darkspawn was riding had once been a magnificent hart with a fine rust-colored coat and a majestic crown of antlers.  But the Blight had twisted and warped its form until the pitiful creature now resembled something more dead than alive, its coat patchy and falling out and its eyes clouded over.

“I found this beast in the Wilds,” The Architect expressed, “It had already been marked by my people but I would not see such a proud creature go to waste.”

“The tragedy is not to die,” Ceyrabeth quoted softly, “But to be wasted.”

“Yes.”

“You should put her out of her misery,” Tregan said scornfully.

“I have tried,” The Architect reached down to stroke the creature’s throat, “I used my power to accelerate the progression of our blood in its body so that it could complete the transformation as quickly and painlessly as possible.   But something within this creature, her spirt, refuses to die.”

“Is she in pain?” Arryn asked, his young eyes full and sympathetic.

“No, young one, she is not.  Her flesh no longer feels pain or weariness or ache. A legacy of my people and a curse, I suppose, this want of feeling.”

Ceyrabeth’s thoughts turned towards Sul and she shuttered; that was _not_ a correlation she was willing to make, “Does she have a name?” She asked instead.

“She does.  _Somniari._ An ancient word from Tevinter.  It means ‘dreamer’.”

“What?” Tregan scoffed disbelievingly, “Don’t tell me that pitiful thing has enough of its mind left to dream.”

The Architect’s expression turned thoughtful for several breaths, “We all dream, Ser knight.   The living.  The dead.   The pure and yes, even those of us you consider to be the wretched and the corrupt,” He leaned forward, “It is in our dreams that we find the comforts, the sanctuary that helps us endure our present and inspires us towards our future.  It is my dream to see my people no longer shackled by a destiny they cannot control or survive.   Pray tell, what is _your_ dream?”

“To not be on this bloody mission,” He grumbled before Mathias clasped the scout’s shoulder.

“Take heart old friend,” He gestured at Eregost, “At least now poor Eregost will have some company.”

“How very comforting,” Spurring his horse about and away, Tregan departed.

The Architect tilted his head towards Ceyrabeth, “At your command, my lady.”

Ceyrabeth cleared her throat, “Let’s head out.”

Nodding, the Architect spurred his mount towards others down the eastern road following the others.   Ceyrabeth brought up the rear and as a light snow began to fall, she too began to consider what her own dreams were…and if they would ever return to her.

.:*:.

The snow was steadily falling by the time the camp from sight, obscured by the hills and the twists and turns of the road.  Ceyrabeth was still bringing up the rear at a brisk pace doing her utmost not to drag her heels.    Looking down, she realized that she still hadn’t read Sul’s note to her.   With painstaking care, she took out the dove from her pack.

“Seems a shame to undo it,” She murmured but these were his last words to her— _for now damn it, for now—_ and with painstaking care she unfolded the dove. 

_Nolite confidere in superficie._

She frowned, she recognized the words as Tevene but had no idea as to their meaning, “Why would he send me this?” She ruminated.  Then she remembered that there was someone who _would_ know. Spurring Eregost, she rode up alongside the Architect.

“Commander,” The creature greeted with cool cordiality, “How may I be of service?”

“Here,” she replied with a sigh, hoping that whatever he had meant for her to know wasn’t _too_ intimate, “Can you tell me what this says?”

The Architect arched an eyebrow, for a moment looking heart achingly similar to Sul, before taking the paper in his long talons, “Where did you get this?” He asked after several minutes.   

Ceyrabeth’s expression darkened; there was something about his tone she didn’t like, “Captain Sul sent it to me. What is it?”

“There is a myth, older than any other I am familiar with,” He explained in the same, hesitant tone, “About a…I do not know this word.  Like a ‘disaster’ but affecting everyone everywhere.”

“A cataclysm?”

“Yes. A cataclysm that occurred before any of the kingdoms of men or elves had been formed.  As I understand, it was a diseased era of madness that preceded all history that we know.”

“And what does that have to do with this?” She asked gesturing to the note in his claws.

“There was a proverb, a warning that survived to become part of the written traditions of the civilizations that followed.   _Nolite confidere in superficie._ In Tevene, it translates into “Do not trust the surface’.”

She made a face, “’Do not trust the surface?   What in the Maker’s name does _that_ mean?”

“I do not know,” The Architect confessed, “It was always taken to be construed as advice: do not trust what people show you but instead what lies beneath,” He shrugged, “So ‘do not trust the surface.’”

“Oh-kay,” She said more confused than ever.    What was any of this supposed to mean?

The Architect’s expression shifted then as he focused more intently on the parchment, it softened and he placed a long finger over his lips which were turning upwards into a deformed smile, “Very clever, Captain Sul.”

“What is it?” Ceyrabeth demanded.

“This is an ambigram,” He explained, “Letters that can be read in more than one direction.”

 _Like my tattoo_ she thought to herself, “What does it say?” She asked instead.

Still looking amused, he handed the note back to her, “I believe,” he answered, “that the good captain meant this message for your eyes only.”

She took the paper from him, turned it upside down and scanned it.

_Look behind you._

“Look--,” She turned but could see nothing but the hills and snow.  

Unless...

“Hyah!” She kicked Eregost’s flanks with more force than she had meant to but it had the desired effect and spurred the beast to a full gallop.

“Commander what is it?” Keiran cried out as she raced past him and down the road.

“Probably going to leave us out here and return to her demon lover,” Tregan commented dourly.

“You’re such a romantic,” Mathias teased, “It warms the heart.”

“I hope she’s careful,” Arryn said worried.

“Oh yes,” Tregan scoffed, “Haven’t you learned by now that that’s what Ceyrabeth is _known_ for?”

“Tregan?” Arryn turned in his saddle, “Shut up.”

“Ha!” Mathias clasped the teenager on the arm “ _Now_ he’s one of us!”

.:*:.

Ceyrabeth proceeded until she found what she was looking for a steep hill that faced west, back towards the camp.   The incline was too much for Eregost so she dismounted, barely waiting for him to stop moving and skidded towards the base of the hill.  Scrambling and occasionally falling upon her hands and knees, she clawed her way up until she reached the top and scanned the horizon. 

She couldn’t see anything through this Maker-cursed snow.   Then she remembered the spyglass.   Her hands trembling, she removed it from the box and extended it with a jerk, bringing it to her face with such haste that she nearly put out her eye.

She looked…and saw it.

There.  At the highest point near the camp.   A light- _lantern-_ swinging back and forth in the wind.  It shone a bright violet color.   She realized that it must have been there all this time waiting for her to reach this point.

No, no not it… _him!_

She scanned the shadows near the lantern and thought for a moment that she could see the outline of a man, not stooped and bent over by the cold and wind but tall.   Straight.   Proud.

And in her heart she knew what her eyes could neither confirm nor deny.   But as someone had shown her, she didn’t need her eyes for this to be true.   She could _feel_ it.

“See you soon…my captain.”

Turning away she headed back the down the hill to her mount as the others approached.

“What is it?” Keiran asked nervously, “Is everything all right?”

For the first time since they set out, Ceyrabeth’s face relaxed into an easy smile.  She nodded, letting the sense of foreboding that Sul’s other message had instilled in her dissipate.   She looked at the faces of her men, her _friends_ , and nodded.   She knew who she could trust.

“Yes,” She confirmed as she swung up into the saddle, “Everything is fine.”

“Tregan has found a path a little further down the road that should help cut some time from the trip,” Mathias informed her.

“Let’s not keep him waiting,” She grinned at the old man, “You know how much he _loves_ waiting.”

“Aye,” The gray-haired man replied with a laugh, “And besides, the sooner we’re there and get this done, the sooner we’re back, isn’t that so commander?” His grin was both infectious and extremely suggestive.

“That is most assuredly so, my friend”

“Well then,” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, “Lead the way.”

She nodded and spurred her horse down the path.  

And as she travelled and as the snow fell and the time passed and the miles were travelled, occasionally she would look back to the west with her spyglass.

The violet light was still there.  _He_ was still there.  Waiting for her, guiding her, watching over her.

And remaining her beacon in the dark to show her the way home.


End file.
